


Enthralled (or, Bloodmages Really Are a Nuisance, Aren't They?)

by dev_chieftain



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: Bloodmagic, F/M, M/M, Multi, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-06-07
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the DA Kink Meme:</p><p>Fuck-or-Die: M!Hawke gets hit with a spell that makes him unbelievably horny - he wants to be taken, used, fucked out of his mind, and if he's not, he'll die. Literally. The gang takes upon themselves to help him, but it turns out only one person isn't enough to satisfy his hunger, so they all need to take turns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title on the meme is only 'Enthralled' but I noticed there was already a DA fic up here by the name, so added the sub-title ala a radio drama.
> 
> This fic is absolutely not finished, though it's also fully planned out. There is plot. And sex. And not-sex. And sometimes angst.
> 
> But mostly, there is virginal!Hawke, and comedy. Because comedy is my favorite of things. Hope you enjoy!

Deep in the caves of the Wounded Coast they are fighting for their lives, desperately struggling against impossible odds. Varric, cornered on the only bit of high ground in the whole cave, is barely able to keep them away from his feet.

"Bloodmages!" Frustration twists into sheer incredulity as yet another animated corpse twists and shakes, rising up even though he had just sent it down with a crossbow bolt through its brain. "Why is it _always Bloodmages?!_ "

Six of the mages remain, though there are nearly seventy corpses shambling about. The mages can barely fight back, splitting their attention so far, and that is all that is saving them. Hawke, surrounded on all sides by the fresh bodies of the bandits who'd led him in here, blasts the ground he stands on with lightning, running the risk that it will strike him just to punish the creatures for coming so close. Fenris leaps through a great swath of them, a white blur, leaving corpses ripped in twain behind him. They drop, incapable of turning to follow him.

She moves in tandem with Fenris as he slides up to two of the mages, sinking his fist into one while the other blasts him with a blood-draining spell that makes Isabela's stomach turn. Before it can do too much damage, she pops close, slitting the second mage's throat so Fenris can finish his business with the first.

The three that remain look warily about, their corpses all either on fire, destroyed or very nearly so. Hawke strides purposefully toward them, and Varric leaps neatly down, Bianca still out. They have the mages surrounded-- not that that means much-- and cornered mages are dangerous. Isabela lurks behind the rest, keeping close watch on the surviving mages to be sure they don't try anything...funny.

"W-we surrender!" shouts the youngest of the three, a girl who has a striking resemblance to Aveline and looks very much like she had never done blood magic before today. The youthful innocence on her face belies the wrinkles around her eyes, however, and Isabela does not let her guard down. "Please, please--! Don't kill us!"

Hawke, unfortunately, does; with a very subtle gesture to Fenris he steps forward, ignoring the way his friend glowers after him. Varric waits, not judging, and Isabela frowns in mistrust. The other two bloodmages are curiously silent and stand to either side of the girl, their hands subtly curled in a way that she thinks must be significant.

"Can you _please_ tell me what this was all about, then?" Hawke is asking in that frustratingly naive, puppy-dog way of his, as the girl clasps her hands before her, biting her lip and making a show of looking very, very frightened. Fenris sighs irately, looking away when he can't bear the disingenuous nature of the display. "Are you Hanora? Why the blazes did you send me this letter if you were planning to attack the first thing that walked through the door?"

Brandishing the letter at her, Hawke frowns, clearly not trusting the girl _quite_ so much as Isabela had feared. When the bloodmage shakes her head, he sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The two mages to either side of the girl turn their hands up a little bit more, palms not quite facing the ceiling. While Hawke continues to question the girl, Varric occupies himself with putting Bianca painstakingly away and Fenris stoically waits, Isabela follows the direction of those palms, and looks up.

What is on the ceiling looks back at her.

" _Look out!_ " she shouts, even as she tries to run towards Hawke to save him and the creature lurking there drops down in the same instant, crushing him to the floor. The fastest rising young noble of Kirkwall doesn't make a sound, but he struggles with the massive foot that has pinned him to the stone, eyes wide with pain and fear, fighting to push it off of him, to breathe.

Several things happens at once; Isabela, intent on rescuing Hawke, lunges up onto the beast, balancing wildly at its center while she tries to decide which part to attack. Sinking both daggers into what is probably its neck, she wonders how it came to be and what it is. It doesn't seem to have a head, just six legs protruding from a swollen, grotesque central body. Fenris joins her, plunging his sword into the thing while Hawke gasps feebly, struggling again. Varric, ever practical, pulls Bianca back out and plants a crossbow bolt through the bloodmage girl's throat, adding a couple for good measure before he turns to her friends. While Isabela and Fenris hack away at the mysterious creature, Hawke slowly gains ground and Varric finishes off the other two with a slight snarl.

"Hawke!" He snaps, when he sees that the mage is still trapped and barely able to catch a breath. "Damn it, what the hell is that thing?" Where she is perched, Isabela is completely safe from the disgusting ichor that drips out of the beast as she opens myriad wounds along its legs and sides. Fenris is intangible. But Hawke, poor lad, is still pinned there and covered in the stuff. It reeks, a little like vinegar or rotting food, and has the underpinnings of that thick wet odor Isabela associates with blood. Some of it falls in his eyes, spattering his face, and Hawke groans in feeble protest, writhing to try and turn his face away and protect himself from further exposure.

They bring it down easily enough, though it's messy and when Isabela leaps away, she's tempted to trash her daggers, now stained with that same, stomach-turning stench. The creature falls heavily, Fenris flicking its blood off of his blade as best he can. The stuff is oily. He mutters irately that, at least they will live to see another day. In the meantime, he offers Hawke a hand despite the mage's unfortunate predicament, helping him to his feet and-- gingerly avoiding any real touch, lest he find the rancid blood upon him-- leads Hawke out of the cave to the nearby beach.

"The hell _was_ that thing?" Varric asks when they have gone, lightly kicking the monster's corpse.

"Who cares?" Isabela mutters, holding her nose. "It'll make a funny story, I guess. Poor Hawke."

The grin that meets her reply cheers her a little. At least they won, after all. He's about to say something particularly funny when they hear a splash and Hawke's indignant complaints from beyond the cave and, chuckling, go outside to join Hawke and Fenris on the beach.

"You all right, Hawke?" Varric inquires, once Hawke has been thoroughly rinsed in the ocean until Fenris, at least, is satisfied. The mage looks bedraggled and a little the worse for wear, and when he tries to crawl back up the rocks out of the water to where they stand, he falls back with a sharp cry of frustration. "Gonna take that as a 'no'; what's the matter?"

"I don't know; my chest hurts." When Hawke tries to climb up again, this time he is met with both Isabela and Fenris's helping hands, and he manages between the both of them to keep his feet. They right him, keeping close as he wobbles, though Isabela, at least, maintains a bit of distance. She loves the ocean, but it's late autumn and windy to boot.

Still keeping close, they start walking back in the direction of Kirkwall, albeit more slowly than usual. "Maybe we should swing by the clinic when we get back. Even if your ribs aren't cracked after that, we're all a little the worse for wear."

Isabela agrees, though Fenris stays tempestuously silent, indicating that his hurts will probably be fine and he is certainly not going to be asking for help with them, _thank you_. "All right," Hawke agrees, after a few moments of silent thought. He runs his hands cautiously along certain points of particular pain and hisses when he accidentally sets off a wound that he had not been feeling until then, but for the most part seems to have come out with not much more than the usual scratches one tends to acquire when being attacked by bloodmages. "Anders hasn't been very friendly lately, in any case. Probably could use some company."

The tension in Fenris is palpable, but the man he loves is either intentionally or innocently oblivious to his misinterpretation of the words. "If you wish to force him to socialize, the Hanged Man will serve much better than Darktown."

"True!"

"Elf, if you can help me get Blondie up to Lowtown for some cards, I'll resolve your debts for last week. I've been dying to get him back for that time he cleaned us all out!" Varric laughs, and Isabela smirks to herself, remembering Anders's profuse thanks the day following said incident. Six weeks training in pretending to be bad at bluffing had paid handsomely towards the funding for Anders's clinic and its needed supplies, and hadn't hurt Isabela's sense of humor any, either. She'd taken a share of her own from the players at the table while they were losing their money to Anders at cards, and called that her fee. What nobody but Isabela knew would hurt only those who were not Isabela, after all; and she'd enjoyed picking Hawke and Merrill's pockets far too much. As mages, they just had an insatiable desire to pick up _strange things_. She'd had her share of amusement trying to figure out WHY Merrill kept pressed leaves, pewter rings and marbles in her pockets for weeks after, and the things in Hawke's pockets had been even more bizarre.

Someday, she wants the opportunity to ask him why in blazes he carries a little doll in his pocket. Of course, returning the items she'd stolen without them seeming to have actually gone missing had been the trickiest part; she'd had to break into the manor and carved her name on the railing of his staircase as punishment for the effort.

"You're on," says Fenris, who has deliberated on the merits of this plan, and seems amused at its potential conclusion. "At least he is incapable of bluffing."

The trip is a long and winding one, for the path to the beaches from Kirkwall goes back up along the high, sheer cliffs that brace the ocean, then back down into the bowl of the black city's impenetrable walls. It was midday when they left, but the sun is low in the sky and has set the clouds aflame by the time they re-enter the city, wending their way through Lowtown while Hawke shivers in the near-constant winds. He is mostly dry, at least.

"Do you think Aveline will let me invite just Donnic to the game?" Isabela muses, as they descend into the sewers. Though he is clearly the worst off of them all, Hawke is in the lead, likely eager to relieve the pressure of his slightly crushed chest if it is at all possible. "Just him, and not her?"

"Well, why wouldn't she?" Shrugging, Varric hops down a small drop, keeping pace with Hawke easily. "She knows about it and doesn't have a problem with it, right?"

"Define 'doesn't have a problem'," Fenris interjects wryly.

"More like 'politely isn't having us all arrested'," Isabela agrees. "I think she feels left out, but it's really just that I hate her temper when it comes to that sort of thing."

Snorting, Varric glances over his shoulder at her, grinning. "I can think of someone who doesn't lose well at all who gets invited _all the time_."

"Fenris? Fenris is very easy on the eyes. And doesn't threaten to arrest me when he loses."

"I think Aveline is a perfectly attractive woman," Fenris says matter-of-factly, in that way that suggests maybe he thinks anyone of stout character is attractive. He has never seemed as easily moved by a pretty face as the majority of his companions. Isabela snickers at the thought of him trying to proposition Aveline. But then, Hawke flirts with the guard captain all the time, though he's never been anything but brotherly towards herself and Merrill.

Suddenly curious, Isabela endeavors to keep her voice a little lower, asking Fenris excitedly, "Does Hawke _like_ women, by the way? I've noticed him flirting with Aveline once or twice, but he's always joking and being charming and whatnot. Never goes for it."

Fenris smirks very, very slightly. "In the sense you are implying? No. It seems he does not."

The subject of their conversation, who has gotten a bit further ahead whilst they were talking, misses a step and staggers wildly, much as he's been doing off and on since they first started walking. This time, he doesn't rediscover his balance, however, and falls into a wall, panting as he sags to the floor.

"Hawke!" Varric shouts, and they are not far behind him, rushing to Hawke's side. While they were not paying close attention he has developed some kind of rash on his face, his neck-- Fenris tears open the collar of his robes, revealing more of the same on his chest.

" _That_ can't be good," Isabela mutters, frowning at the rash and the way Hawke's eyes seem unwilling to focus. "Does it itch, Hawke? Reaction to that thing's blood, you think?"

No answer comes; Hawke groans weakly, pressing his face into the cool stone of the wall. His hands are shaking. He is a mess. Fenris, panicking a bit, tries to speak to him, snarling "Hawke! Can you hear me?" when it becomes clear that the only means of communicating with him will be yes or no questions. It takes a moment for the question to register, but he nods once, gulping for air.

"Varric, can you go ahead to warn him that we're coming?" Isabela asks, turning to see concern lining Varric's brow. "Do that; we'll carry him there as fast as we can."

Both of them agree that expediency is important, so it's no great feat to get Varric running ahead of them, Fenris picking Hawke up as gently as he can. With Isabela scouting, they're able to avoid a dispute between the Carta and Athenril's gang, skirt an area known to belong to certain unpleasant thugs who have it out for Hawke, and sidle into Anders's clinic just as it seems Anders has succeeded in clearing the place out, attending to his other patients rapidly so he will be able to focus on Hawke when he is brought in.

By now, Hawke's occasional groans of pain have become rather desperate, and he writhes in useless attempts to escape Fenris's grasps, not seeming fully aware of where he is or what is happening. Anders, seeing the situation, doesn't waste time asking what happened. "Put him down here, please," he says quickly, sucking in a worried breath through his teeth.

"Anything I can do to help?" Isabela asks, stepping forward to offer an extra pair of hands.

"It...doesn't _look_ serious," Anders admits, with a slightly puzzled frown as he pulls the front of Hawke's robes open a bit further. "The ribs are definitely a bit crushed. I'll have a better idea once I've worked on those."

And then the room is filled with the static blue energy that Anders can channel through his hands. They wait, breathless, as he nearly reaches inside of Hawke, righting things that cannot be seen by their eyes, soothing the patches of skin gone red in reaction to the strange monster's blood. It's a grueling process, one that leaves Anders shaking and barely able to stand on his own power, when he's done. Isabela catches him, Varric pulls up a chair and Fenris goes to Hawke's side, not daring to touch him, just crouching down to ask in a whisper if he is all right.

"You all right, Blondie?" Varric asks, steadying Anders with a gentle hand on his arm. The look he gets in answer seems to understand he meant to ask after more than just Anders's health, as they both look over to Hawke, who is shyly taking Fenris's hand.

"Yes." There is a heavy sadness that Anders shoves aside, and he smiles self-deprecatingly. "Yes, nothing a bit of food and drink won't cure. I rather think I will take you up on that offer, Varric."

Sitting up slowly, Hawke makes a face at the strange sensation of newly healed flesh and has to linger a moment, braced against the table. "I--" he begins, trying to button up his robe with fingers that nervously fumble and slip, useless for such a task. He wavers where he stands. "I think--"

Then he nearly hits his head on the table as he falls, and Fenris leaps over it to catch him, grunting under his deadweight, setting him down carefully on the ground. Varric is at his side instantly and Anders, assisted by Isabela, joins them, frowning.

"What in blazes happened to him?" He checks pulse, temperature, but finds neither abnormal. "What were you fighting?"

"Bloodmages," Isabela supplies helpfully. "The last one summoned this weird-- monster-- thing. No head. Very creepy."

Though Fenris nods his agreement with her report, Varric adds to it with a thoughtful pause. "Bled a lot; most of the spots where he was getting that rash, he'd gotten sprayed with blood from that thing. It was-- ugh. Awful. But he washed it off as soon as we'd killed it, so I dunno what's wrong with him."

"Did any of it get in his mouth?" Isabela inquires, feeling ill at the thought. "Maybe he swallowed it. Sure _smelled_ like poison."

"I'll see if I can figure it out. Help me get him back up onto the table, would you?"

Between the three of them (with Varric coaching) they are able to move Hawke back to the examining table. Anders goes into trance once more, but after a ten minute search can find nothing. Exasperated, he turns away, stalking to his shelves. "This is ridiculous. Maybe he was just exhausted?"

"It's possible."

With an elegant shrug, Varric smiles it all away. "Maybe he just needs a meal and he'll be fine."

Hawke's voice rises up from the table, though his words slur together awkwardly, as though he is deeply drunk. "I think I need a cold shower."

"Yeah? Freezing your ass off all the way here wasn't enough, huh?"

Moving closer, Varric pats Hawke's shoulder lightly, trying to comfort him. He shakes his head, refusing to be consoled. "When-- when it got warmer, I started t'feel--" His eyes roll back, and he moans weakly, almost whimpering. "Andraste's eyes, it hurts something fierce. I think I did get some of that stuff in my mouth. Got it on those cuts I had on my hands, too, from grabbing the girl. Maybe I'm dying."

"Don't be melodramatic," Isabela chuckles. "You're just sick."

Turning towards his bookshelves, Anders frowns, trying to remember something from a long life of not paying all that much attention to lessons he didn't especially care about. "Wait. This-- thing, you described. This monster. What did it look like again?"

"It had six legs, no head, and two...false ones. Things protruding from its back." Fenris's lip curls as he describes it. "Its blood was much darker than human blood, nearly brown."

"Maker, which book was that," Anders mutters under his breath, checking each title on his limited shelf. "I know I've read about that somewhere. Those creatures can be summoned, and..." He pauses, palms turned skyward, as if begging the rest of the information to come down to him. It does not, and he sighs. "I can't remember. I don't even know why I'd half-remember. Usually the only things I bothered memorizing had to do with--"

Stopping himself, Anders turns slowly back to his shelves, skimming until he finds an unassuming, brown, leatherbound book that looks more like a journal than an academic tome.

Waiting patiently, Varric and Isabela trade glances. Hawke is conscious, but seems to be getting worse again; Fenris is completely involved with trying to comfort him in silence.

"--well, that's not funny." Snapping the book shut, Anders turns to the rest of the shelf with a sigh. "Apparently I have a reference material on this sort of thing, but I'm not certain it's appropriate for the situation." Pulling down a thicker tome bound in what appears to be iron on first inspection, he cracks it open, turning to one of the first chapters within. The air of the clinic is tinged with that lingering stench of medicines, and Hawke's pained gasping.

After some minutes of intense frowning, Anders throws the book on the floor, dissatisfied with its contribution. "That's just nonsense," he mutters, running a hand through his hair, pacing. Surprised by the outburst, Varric asks with a laugh,

"What did it _say_ , Blondie?"

Anders rubs at the bridge of his nose, hands still a bit shaky from the energy he poured into healing Hawke's more obvious hurts, earlier. "It-- it's nonsense. The reason I _remembered_ is embarrassing enough; when I was younger, I thought it sounded--" he makes a vague gesture with his fingers, searching for words. "I don't know, interesting. I was fascinated that anyone would ever use it."

"You have yet to get to the part where you tell us what 'it' is, you know," Isabela reminds him gently.

"I'm getting there!" Pacing again, he circles around the room, pausing on the side of the table opposite where Fenris is sitting. They seem to be at a temporary truce, which may be a first, but Isabela doesn't dare comment and ruin it. "It's just-- it's stupid, is what it is, I can't figure out why any bloodmages would want to do this to anyone, let alone Hawke."

"If it's mean," Isabela supplies helpfully, "they probably wanted to do it because they weren't very nice people, just so you know."

"The beast you fought is a summon usually only summoned to sacrifice it." With a defeated sigh, Anders checks Hawke's pulse again and, unbidden, his fingers begin to stroke the hair from the other man's face. Hawke turns into it, Anders recoils and Fenris crackles with energy, death in his eyes.

There is sadness in Anders's eyes, but no guilt. He shakes his head.

"That doesn't bode well."

"Not for you."

Scowling at Fenris tolerantly, Anders holds up both hands placatingly. "Not for _Hawke._ According to the research I found on the subject, they're summoned to be sacrificed. The blood is collected, purified, and poured over people that bloodmages want to make permanent thralls. I'm not sure if it's magical or just some quality of the blood-- some kind of poison that affects the mind and senses, instead of directly affecting the body-- but just being bathed in it is enough to turn an unwilling person into a thrall. I have _no_ idea what the unfiltered blood might do, and there's nothing in there about ingesting it or getting it into cuts. You can count on one thing: whatever it's doing to him, it isn't good."

Suddenly, the clinic is silent for a wholly different reason than before; Fenris's face is slightly flushed with rage, but he doesn't have anyplace to lash out. They have already killed the people responsible, and it wouldn't help Hawke, in any case. Varric, unwilling to let his best friend die and, moreover, irritated that he had any part in Hawke's current misery, steps forward. "What if you had some of the blood? Could you figure out what causes it, undo it?"

" _Maybe_ ," Anders sighs. "I can't make any promises, but it's all I can think of, either."

"How long does he have?" Isabela asks, uneasy. "Y'know, before he's-- well-- a thrall?"

"That's the thing, I don't think he can become one, since the person who summoned the beast is dead. But he's still acting off. The book suggests there're some very-- sexual needs that develop in thralls made that way."

Snorting, Isabela shakes her head. "That's ridiculous."

"I'm _serious._ There are about thirty warnings in the damn thing not to have sex with your thrall because it'll weaken the stuff. Apparently," he adds with old disdain, "all bloodmages are hormonal, irresponsible teenagers."

"Wait, so you're saying if Fenris and Hawke make like rabbits _right now_ , he might be fine?" She can't help laughing at the thought, though Fenris's expression is stony with disapproval at her levity. To him, the situation is deeply serious; never mind that the suggestion is also embarrassing.

Anders looks uncertain and shakes his head, turning away before he is tempted to reach out and test that theory by touching Hawke again. "It's possible. I- I just don't trust the validity of the book. If you can get me to a sample of that blood, Varric, I think that'd be best. Since we're dealing with bloodmagic, it might be good to bring Merrill along, as well."

Much as he might detest her choices, magically, this is hardly a situation in which they can afford to ignore the potential that she can be of great help to them. Varric, who has been listening intently, speaks up at last, looking concerned. "You're exhausted, aren't you, Blondie? Stay here. I'll grab Daisy on the way out of town; we'll bring you back some, and let her have a look on the way." He glances at Isabela, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. "You coming too, Rivaini?"

"Of course!" She glances at Fenris, frowning at the way he hovers. "You probably should stay here, but I'm worried you'll suffocate him while we're gone."

"I would never."

"Right. Well. We'll be back as soon as we can, Anders," she salutes him and turns to Varric, motioning for him to lead the way. They are back up in Lowtown within minutes, and it is a simple matter to collect Merrill, explain the situation, and begin the return trip to that smelly cave on the coast.

Once they've gone, Anders sits down heavily in a chair, rubbing at his face with both hands, as though he might be able to banish his weariness by just thinking hard enough about it. Fenris watches him, impassive, and when the silence begins to bother him (or is it Hawke's continued panting?), he breaks it.

"Thank you."

"Hah!" Anders laughs wryly. "He's my friend too, you know. I certainly wouldn't let him die if it's ever left up to me."

Fenris shakes his head, looking back at Hawke as though he is seeing another time and place. "You did not have to overexert yourself, but you did. Thank you, for that."

"Well." To that, he can find nothing to say, and at last settles on a weary, "You're welcome."


	2. Chapter 2

Hawke's face is hot.

His throat is sore, his hands shake. When he opens his eyes, the world seems to pitch and whirl, and he doesn't like that so he prefers to keep them closed, just now. Nearby, he can hear Fenris and Anders speaking, mysteriously civil. At first, he tried to make out what they were saying, but it makes him sweat with effort, so he has since given up. The pleasant sound of the rise and fall of their voices is one of the few comforts he has at the moment, so he tries to be glad of that, at least. The heat that is consuming him from the inside out leaves little in its wake; pain, and feverish weakness. Every touch is precious; every breath feels as though it could be his last. Maybe he really _is_ dying.

He thinks, fuzzily, 'What a way to go.' If it had been up to him, he would have picked death by dragon. Dragons, at least, tend to kill their meals very quickly. None of this slow, torturous, weak agony. A snapped neck, an instant of shock.

Then, whatever comes after.

"Hawke?" someone says, touching his forehead. Their fingers draw back as if burned, even as he moans in relief to feel skin on his skin.

He would give anything to feel that touch again. It's hard to breathe or think. He's soaked in his own sweat and chattering; thirsty, hungry, and sore. There's another touch, the back of Anders' hand on his cheek, even as Fenris squeezes Hawke's hand to reassure him. He sighs at how pleasant it is, turns towards that hand, opening his eyes to find Anders staring down at him like a wild animal frozen as a predator steps from the brush. He doesn't know how his lips have swollen, shining softly from him licking them constantly. He doesn't know how his urgent attempts to keep breathing are affecting Anders and Fenris both, half-moans because the pain is only getting worse and it's hard, very hard, to breathe. He doesn't know that his flushed face and unfocused eyes give a curious impression of desire, or maybe he really just desires human contact and is overreacting.

Whatever the case, Anders steps away and he could almost weep in frustration. He would prefer his final hours be spent coddled and cherished by his friends, if he has to die like this. It would not be so bad, surrounded by them all, with them petting his face and trading stories.

A pox on blood mages. This is the worst death ever.

***

"He's delirious," Anders sighs, returning to his shelves and perusing the books there at length until he finds two more of the leather-bound tomes he had been skimming through earlier. After enduring Anders's attempts to coax Hawke into some semblance of consciousness to assist in diagnosis, Fenris is almost too tense to offer to look through the shelves as well. It would be an insult, however, not to put to use the skills Hawke has helped him learn in order to save the man's life, especially since he has a personal interest in their success.

Rising from his seat beside the examination table where Hawke still lies, he moves silently to Anders's side, glancing at the various titles in the shelf. He catches mouthing the words subconsciously and bites down on his tongue to try to stop himself. It is hard to make sense of some of the more esoteric titles without sounding them out.

"Fenris?" Startled, Anders steps back, looking at him with something bordering on surprise. They do their best not to glower at each other, but they are so rarely in close quarters that neither knows how to safely interact with the other. It doesn't help that the person usually responsible for keeping their arguments in check is incapacitated. Anders, at least, is determined not to descend into a shouting match without good reason. "What are you doing?"

Sensing that he is very close to making the mage annoyed, Fenris steps back, reconsidering. He has been fairly hostile, though the mage only wants to help Hawke to recover, and now that he gives it thought, he feels suitably embarrassed about it. "I thought I might help you research this creature's blood." Admitting that is hard.

"Oh," and Anders, somehow, smiles with understanding. "No, that's a very good idea. Sorry, I half-thought you were interested in my private journals and I _don't_ have to tell you how unnerving it is to have someone wanting to go through your things, haha."

Distracted by the large tome Anders had first thrown down as useless, Fenris kneels, picking it up and dusting it off. He frowns at its strange script as he tries to examine the text. Whoever scribed it has such a different concept of lettering that he can't make it out. Closing the tome, he looks up at Anders with a puzzled frown. "Private journals?" He follows Anders's unsubtle glance at the leather-bound books crammed on the highest shelf, and his eyebrows jump in surprise. "Those books were written by _you?_ "

"Well-- yes, actually." He sighs in exasperation. "What's so surprising about that?"

Fenris only shakes his head, seeming mildly put out with himself for speaking his mind. "Nothing. You do write often, and eloquently. I should not have been surprised." He returns to his scanning of the bookshelf, pointedly avoiding the shelf of journals.

"Are you trying to butter me up?" Civil is just about all they can manage for any length of time; for now that Fenris has made his decision to try to be polite, Anders's exhaustion is making him irritable. "You don't have to, you know, I'd take care of Hawke whether you wanted me to or not."

Shooting him a withering look that suggests he is _missing the point_ , Fenris does not elaborate, and hands Anders back the large tome with the metal cover. But, no. He can't bring himself not to answer. "Pity that you do not spend more time writing and less time assuming the worst of those around you."

Anders has a witty retort for that, and smirks very slightly as he opens his mouth to answer, but that is when all hell breaks loose in his clinic.

Varric, Isabela, Sebastian and Merrill burst in through the doors, closing them just as quickly behind them. The archer looks exceedingly pale, while Merrill is preoccupied with the dark vial she carries gingerly as far from her body as she can. Isabela is leaning against the door, sighing in relief; Varric makes a point of addressing Anders sharply, a mild note of irritation in his voice despite the lighthearted tone.

"You're _welcome_ for leading the templars in circles, Blondie, but don't you think it would've been worth mentioning that they've been sniffing around _before_ we left?"

"Let me see that." Ignoring Varric, he goes to Merrill, accepting the offered vial with a slight wrinkle of his nose for the smell. More than that, it _feels_ wrong-- magic-tainted, as though it's some kind of heavily corrupted concoction made with lyrium. He probes a little more deeply, calling a bit of power through his own fingers to test the stuff for that odd feeling that Darkspawn taint has. Nothing.

They are all watching him nervously when he comes out of his trance with a frustrated frown.

"Did you already examine it, Merrill?" It's incredibly difficult to suppress his usual contempt when talking to her; she is actually the expert on bloodmagic as far as they're concerned, and he has to believe that her advice will be valuable. If it isn't, he's going to be confronted with the particularly confusing dilemma of whether he should be glad she's not very good at bloodmagic, or irritated that she's useless in a crisis.

She surprises him by answering easily, "Oh, yes. _Kal'enkai_ blood is very recognizable, by the smell at least. I was hoping you might know some spirit magic that will help with Hawke--" her worried expression is oddly motherly, considering her usual flighty behavior, and she refrains from touching their friend (who, left to his own devices, has fallen unconscious for the moment-- probably, Anders suspects, for the best). "Because, well, the only cure I know of--" she flushes bright red. That seems to be one of the downsides of being so pale. "--it's _dirty_."

Anders stifles an irreverent snort at what he has always thought is overwrought pretending at naiveté, and glowers at the vial again. "I'll try something else, but no promises. Do you have any idea what will happen to him if we just leave him like this?"

Hawke's breathing, rough and struggling, is very loud in the small space of his clinic. It seems to be making Sebastian slightly uncomfortable, and Anders can sense, more than see, Fenris behind him, hovering worriedly at Hawke's side. When Merrill shakes her head, her eyes flick to the elf behind him and Anders realizes she doesn't want to worry anyone. Somehow, that sensitivity softens his heart a bit. He smiles at her wearily.

"Nothing good, hmm? Well. I'll-- be back in a bit. Sit tight. Sorry about the templars," he says as an afterthought, shrugging at Varric. "I appreciate the help."

"Don't mention it."

He goes into the back room of the clinic, pushing aside some musty shawls and such that some of his patients have donated for sterilization and re-use as bandages. Every little bit helps, and it always makes him smile a bit to remember the grateful faces of the people he has helped. Once he has cleared away enough of a space, he sets the noxious vial down in the center of it, and begins tracing runes he's half-surprised to discover he remembers. Carefully, precisely, with considerably more caution than he ever displayed back in the circle, he creates the containment circle that had been the bane of his early studies as an apprentice. When he is finished, it glows softly with the kiss of magical energy, and he can see how the air shimmers above the marks, as if it were sizzling hot.

"All right, old friend," he mutters softly to himself-- to them-- as he places his fingertips lightly on the vial, and prepares to give up the fight for control. It's one of the more terrifying options he has, but he has come back before. Hopefully this time will be no different. "This is for a fellow mage, and he's our friend, too. But it's because of other mages. Worst kind of injustice. Please-- help me figure out what this is doing to him."

Justice stirs in his mind, rattling curiously up his arms, out his eyes, his fingertips. _That is the blood of a demon,_ Justice answers simply, and Anders can feel its reluctance to focus on such a small and unimportant problem when there are so many enormous injustices waiting to be rectified. He bullies Justice back on task, swearing he'll throw himself into prison and end them both if Justice doesn't help, and the spirit gives pause, turning back to the problem, rumbling and looming over it, eyeing the blood with mild distaste.

 _It is foul,_ Justice complains.

It would figure that today, and not any other day in recent memory, such a small detail can bother his companion. Anders sighs, rolling his eyes. "I know it's foul; I need to know what it's doing to Hawke and some way to fix it. Please, Justice. He might die."

Another plaintive shifting, as Justice crosses Anders's arms over his chest, perusing the vial more closely. They daren't take it from the rune of binding Anders has laid out on the table, lest it infect them as well; but it's hard to see _into_ it this way. Justice crouches down to be on eye-level with it, and then he can see all too clearly.

 _Corruption._ Anger begins to burble below the surface of his thoughts, growing wilder the more he thinks of it. How could anyone do this to another person? The very thought makes his head throb with agitation. _If he is left, he will be no better than the tranquil, and you will need to kill him._

Anders is fighting valiantly not to go out on a killing rampage fueled solely by Justice's outrage over the existence of such a substance. It takes effort to answer. "--tranquil?" he gasps, a flash of fear gripping his heart.

 _Yes. It will consume him until he only serves others. Not the thrall of one mage, but of everyone around him._ Justice pauses, seeming almost hesitant to continue. _I know no way to break this curse. The poison mixes with anything it touches, inextricably, and eats it. Even now it is eating through the glass of your bottle._

This close, they can sense the ugly sensation of the blood's twisted magic. It is driving Justice into a furious frenzy; it's all Anders can do to keep himself contained. "I'll-- take care of it," he promises, straining to suppress his rage on Hawke's behalf and leave behind only concern. Concern is useful. Rage is a weapon best saved for enemies they can actually face.

Justice allows him to pull the rage away, slowly fading. Before he relents, he turns inward, addressing Anders directly. _You must work with the maleficar to save him. You must do this thing. If you do not, then your friend's spirit will die within his body._

Then it is Anders, with only a trace of the spirit's power glimmering along his fingertips as he picks the vial back up and trudges out to the main clinic to rejoin the others. Varric has disappeared while he was gone, but the others lounge about in various states of discomfort. Sebastian lingers by the door, keeping watch for any templars who might have come back and caught wind of them. Isabela has begun preparing some legume type objects she brought with her, and warming tea. Merrill looks up brightly when Anders returns, but his expression is enough to tell her everything.

"Any luck?" she asks, in spite of that. "Did Justice have any idea what to do?"

Shaking his head, Anders frowns down at the vial in his hand. "We need to get rid of this someplace safe, however. Justice told me it's eating through the glass; I don't think we want to just leave it sitting around."

"And Hawke?" Fenris's voice is tight, strained. He is not ready for the idea that Hawke cannot be saved; none of them are.

"I don't have anything. If we can pull off the cure you're describing, Merrill, we need to hear what it is. It's all I've got, anyway, and I don't know of any other healers in Kirkwall, particularly." Well. Excepting the people who claimed to be healers and generally were working for the coterie to collect information while giving suspect massages. But they hardly counted, and this was rather serious, after all.

Merrill seems oddly reluctant to answer, and her face grows red again. Anders, who despite himself is beginning to warm to the idea of eating whatever-it-is Isabela is cooking, raises an eyebrow. He's exhausted and hungry. He can't imagine what her problem is, unless-- "It's a ritual of cleansing, but um, in order to do it, Hawke would have to-- to--" Just when he can't imagine her turning any redder, her flush deepens, spreading to her ears and down her neck. "To, well, to copulate with-- people-- until he-- until it wore off. You may know already, this sort of compulsion is eroded by intimate contact with numerous others. The strength and severity of the corruption-- I've only seen anything like it once, and it took seven days to cure."

Anders cannot help himself. "You want us to have sex with him for _a week straight?!_ "

"No! no no-- I'm not saying-- I mean, I don't know, maybe, if it's really difficult, but I can't be sure until we do it." Merrill's hands are up in a warding gesture, but it's as much to protect herself from Fenris as his own outburst. Sebastian has gone completely still, and his expression is dark with mistrust and a slight flush of-- what? embarrassment?

"Well, if we're willing to help out," Isabela drawls languidly, clearly struggling not to laugh, "Can't we just take turns?"

 _That_ of course devolves into a massive argument; Anders finds himself defending Hawke's right to privacy, while Sebastian explodes, swearing vehemently that they cannot ask such a thing of him. Merrill is all but flailing her arms in denial of her intent to do any such thing, and Fenris remains stonily silent, glaring at them all.

It is Hawke's voice that breaks through their arguing, thin and frightened. Anders feels uneasy, hearing that voice so small.

"--do-- do I-- have to?"

"What?" Isabela pretends at offense, but winks at him, trying to smile encouragingly. "Don't you want to at least give us ladies _one_ go?"

Hawke is barely conscious, and his eyes don't focus well. His breathing is growing weaker as time passes, and he has an aura of confusion about him that makes Anders's throat tight. "--but--" He gropes for Fenris's hand, swallowing hard. "I-- I haven't...I wouldn't know--"

Now it is Hawke who is blushing, looking curiously young and innocent at his half-confession of inexperience. Seeing that, Anders feels a new kind of shame sinking down on him, that he had assumed Hawke would have no problem with such an arrangement-- maybe even welcome it. There was no changing the fact that, appearances aside, Hawke was one of the youngest of their group-- and he'd never thought about it, but as an apostate, there had probably never been much of a chance for Hawke to pursue romance, growing up.

Unfazed, Isabela has started stroking Hawke's hair, lightly, gently (despite the low growl in Fenris's throat she gets for daring). "Don't worry, Hawke. We'll take good care of you. And hey, maybe Fenris can just take care of that with you privately. I imagine you'd prefer that, wouldn't you?"

Moaning piteously, Hawke seems incapable of answering, too busy pushing his face up into Isabela's touch. She recoils, clearly startled, and they all grow more sober when he opens his eyes again, drowsily answering, "Whatever you wish."

"All right." There is no questioning that they need a better plan than 'turn Hawke into a prostitute for a week', but there has to be a better one than forcing him to have sex with people he's not exactly interested in (including, Anders thinks with a twinge of regret, himself). "All right, Merrill, what if-- what if Fenris just spends a lot of time with Hawke for a week. Will that do it? That should do it, right?"

Fenris bristles, clearly wanting to protest, but holds his peace. With a sad sigh, Merrill shakes her head. "No, Anders; you don't understand. If only Fenris were to do it, then it wouldn't cure Hawke at all. He'd just--" She makes a crushing gesture with one hand, grimly. "--fall apart and become Fenris's thrall instead of the blood mage who set the spell. It has to be more than one person to weaken the corruption without weakening Hawke."

Turning to the subject of their conversation, she adds, very softly:

"I'm sorry, Hawke. But I'd rather you hate us than be dead." There is no answer for nearly two minutes before Hawke lifts the hand that Fenris is not squeezing, and takes Merrill's with it, squeezing her fingers lightly.

He manages a smile, though the fever is not treating him well. "Well, I'd rather it be you lot than some strange blood mages. I just-- I'm sorry. I don't-- I don't want any of you to suffer for me."

Anders thinks tiredly that he should probably not be tantalized by the idea of spending time alone with Hawke, especially considering Hawke's reluctance concerning the matter. Sebastian, who is flushing fit to give Merrill a run for her money, says stiffly from his position at the door, "It's your life, Hawke."

They all nod in agreement, and Hawke closes his eyes with a shaky laugh. "In that case, you all have to-- impress me on our first dates before I'm going to let you have a taste. I expect--" he coughs, and it keeps going for too long, ruining what little sarcasm Hawke had been able to inject into the conversation. "--I _expect_ you'll all live up to my high standards, though."

"The ones currently where anybody who touches your face gets to have a go?" Isabela asks wryly, and it's saved, because Hawke laughs with her. "Seriously, though, we'll need some kind of chart. D'you want us to try this in shifts of days? half days? How bad do you want a good fucking?"

This is about the time that Varric and Aveline walk into the clinic, the former shaking his head at Isabela and the latter raising an eyebrow.

"Clearly, you didn't actually need my help if this is what you're talking about," Aveline says sharply, her distaste only mildly acerbic as she notes Hawke's condition with obvious concern.

Anders motions her in and offers the rest the use of his rickety chairs. "You'll need an explanation, and then Isabela's right, we will probably need some kind of plan to see this through. How much do you know so far?"

He fills them both in on the details they missed or simply didn't know about, and in the end, Aveline is grimacing on Hawke's behalf.

"You're sure he has to do this?" she asks urgently, looking to Merrill for some secret solution that she might have been keeping from them, not realizing she ought to share it. "Absolutely certain?"

They nod, and Varric strokes his chin. Then he calls the rest of them over, pulling out a small journal he had on hand, tearing out the first blank page of paper he finds in it. With a feather quill he seemed to produce from nowhere, he begins writing down their names in a column.

"All right," he says, with no small trace of irony in his voice. "Who's available when?"

***

Fenris is hard pressed to agree to this. It makes him sick to think that it could all have been avoided if he'd just been more careful fighting that damned creature in that forsaken cave. If it weren't for the unique nature of the magic (always magic) poisoning Hawke's body, he would refuse to let the others help and handle it all himself.

Since he has no choice, he has offered to be with Hawke in the evenings, since he sleeps too late to offer his attention in the morning. After they'd completed their schedule, he had enlisted Sebastian's assistance carrying the mage (uncomfortably affectionate in his half-delirious state) up to Hightown again and setting him down in his own bed in his own estate.

It had been difficult, speaking with Hawke's family, his mother especially. She was a gentle woman, one whom Fenris had only come to respect more the longer he knew Hawke and, by extension, her. They had only spoken once before today, and the night held many frightening things for him, as well as good ones but she had been supportive then, and is supportive now.

"Maker's breath!" She had almost seemed surprised by her own words, though surely her shock revolved more heavily around having her son brought to their estate incapable of standing and clearly feverish. "My poor boy! What's wrong? Should I send Bodahn for your healer friend in Darktown?"

Fenris, stepping in to prevent Sebastian from dawdling about putting Hawke in his bed upstairs, pushed the other man further into the estate and directed him upstairs with one pointed finger while he answered. "He has already been to see Anders. What he needs now is rest and-- certain other things."

"Oh, dear." Leandra's worried face had smoothed into a slightly calmer expression, but the fear of losing her eldest son still lingered there. "What can I do to help him, Ser Fenris? Thank you so much for bringing him home--"

He had felt terribly awkward, and wondered if she would understand. Being called 'ser' did not ease his sense of not belonging. "The-- nature of what is required-- is dangerous," he had settled on a slight lie in order to spare Hawke his mother's concern. "We've arranged a schedule to administer the treatment but since it has to do with bloodmagic--"

Horror flashed across her face, and he could see he hadn't explained himself well enough.

"No! No. He was attacked by blood mages, Lady Hawke, and for your safety-- for the servants' safety-- it might be best if you go on a short vacation until he is cured. If you prefer, we can bring him to the clinic again, but we thought he might be more comfortable here."

Relieved, Leandra had nodded once, stifling her fear for her son. "That was very prudent of you. Thank you, my dear. I know he's very fond of you; please, take good care of him." And with a smile and a brusque run through the house to fetch clothing, supplies and the three servants, she had returned to the foyer, telling him which street she intended to be staying at with a certain friend of hers that had been wanting to show off her prized gardens all summer.

"If you can," she had said, as she was walking out the door, "rescue me from her inanity as soon as possible." With a wink that was so like her irascible son it was uncanny, she had been out the door and gone, and Fenris had wondered if she guessed what needed to be done for her son while she was away. Best not to think about it.

Everything after that had been a flurry of coming and going; Merrill laying wards to screen Hawke from any curious blood mages who might come looking for him, lured by the ambient energy of the strange spell he suffered under; Anders to bring several poultices and a couple of healing potions to make sure they were on hand to help mediate Hawke's overwhelming fever; Sebastian because he had forgotten to retrieve his gloves after taking them off, and Varric to give him a pep-talk.

"All right. I know you don't want to hear it--" Varric had caught the door with a sharp kick strong enough to force Fenris to let him in.

"You're right," he had sighed. "I do not."

"But I want to tell you anyway," the dwarf had continued earnestly. "The person Hawke loves is _you_. Don't feel threatened by this. That ain't gonna change, and he's going to need you."

The sheer accuracy of Varric's summary regarding his feelings made Fenris glower, and the dwarf had thrown up his hands, backing through the door again.

"That's all I wanted to say. See you later."

"...good night, Varric," he had said at last, feeling inadequate and ungrateful.

Now he is alone in Hawke's mansion, with Hawke, for the first time in nearly three months. Hawke's soft moaning is audible from here; waiting has only harmed him. There is no time to think about how he feels, how Hawke feels, only time to act.

He swallows thickly, goes upstairs, and stares at the man in the bed with longing that could nearly kill him, if he listened to it. Hawke has somehow writhed out of his clothing, despite a feeble weakness brought on by the fever, and still sweats, eyes screwed shut against the pain.

Fenris can't stand to see him like this. Hoarse with emotion, he says "Hawke," not sure what to do, what to say.

"Please," Hawke answers wearily, rolling his hips very slowly, in a way that is so sensual Fenris almost can't look away. "Please, I know-- I know you're not ready, and I've waited, but-- please," and it feels as though Hawke has lost all hope, even though he says he will keep waiting for as long as Fenris needs. "I need-- please."

A shudder of anticipation runs through him and Fenris steps slowly across the bedroom floor, unbuckling his armor piece by piece. He simply lets it drop to the floor, unable to justify waiting any longer than absolutely necessary.

He crawls into the bed, which smells of sweat and under that, Hawke-- that curious, earthy smell like wet soil that always lingers around him-- and, almost fearfully, touches one of Hawke's nipples, kisses his cheek. Their last night was powerful and overwhelming, and Hawke silently let Fenris guide him, clearly new to matters of love. It had been rough-- the only way Fenris knows how to love is violently-- but careful enough, and though Hawke had seemed reluctant to sit down for the next day or two, he had not been unhappy. (Or is it right to say, he had been unhappy for other reasons?)

Now, it is difficult for Fenris to proceed. These are the same strong muscles he ran his tongue over before, this is the same mouth that sucked his tongue, this is the very man who asked to taste Fenris's erection before they went further, who very nearly came just with the feel of Fenris in his mouth. And yet-- there is a fragile sense that he will break Hawke if he is too fast.

It is Hawke, then, that guides Fenris this night:

"Touch me," whispers his voice, sultry as a summer rite of battle. "Come inside me and touch me," he pleads; and if his eyes are glazing over with an eerie emptiness, it doesn't stop him from pulling Fenris down onto him, from licking Fenris's throat up, down, sucking his jugular until he makes a noise of his own pain, powerless to resist Hawke's eager touch.

He wants to say that he has dreamed of this. He has. But it would be cruel to tell Hawke now, when the only reason he has come is, ostensibly, to save Hawke's life.

Though he is younger, inexperienced, almost embarrassingly chaste compared to Fenris, Hawke lifts his hips, trying to rub himself against the man above him until Fenris finally gives in, turning Hawke over, borrowing some of Anders's healing salve to ease passage and, with some delicate work, entering as he has been asked.

Hawke's voice is a croon of needy pleasure, and he can't lift his head, hanging there on hands and knees, gripping the blankets and begging Fenris to _move_. Each time he does, he is assaulted by the glory of it, of the magic singing through him from touching another person so intimately and, more dimly, almost unimportant, the magic that flickers in his lyrium brands, as well. They move together roughly because, even still, it is all Fenris knows; are the guttural grunts Hawke is making of pain, or pleasure?

He listens closer, and discovers that they are neither: Hawke is coughing, every time Fenris is buried as deep as he can get inside of Hawke's body, " _I love you_ ".

The night is a mess after that, all a blur of fucking until one of both of them reaches a climax and then falling still in a tangle of limbs and semen. He never manages to hold Hawke as he wishes he could, but touches him constantly, stroking his face, his chest, teasing him until he is ready for more and Fenris has regained his breath. They sleep in the same bed for the first time, ever.

It is alarmingly comfortable. He is astonished to discover what he was missing.

But when the crack of daylight first arrives, Fenris cleans up their mess, leaving Hawke sleeping, and slips back into his armor. He knows what he is doing, but he does it anyway. He goes downstairs, pacing by Hawke's fireplace, until Aveline arrives. When she does, he nods to her and leaves as quickly as he can.

He knows he is running away. But he has to; just until he can collect his thoughts, until evening falls again. This will not have been the hardest day.

And yet, somehow, thinking of Hawke's shy smile and gentle kisses, even while Fenris was fucking him, he thinks at the same time that nothing can be harder than tasting heaven and walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last line of this chapter is way too melodramatic so it miiiight get changed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's probably the most explicit so far. Mostly contains anal play.

Luckily, Hawke is still asleep when she arrives. It wasn't easy to fit into the schedule Varric had been making, and she had certainly considered the merits of letting the others handle this particular crisis without her. But Aveline had known Hawke longest of them all, and she had never seen him as frightened as he had been at the prospect of what promised to be a brutal introduction to a world of sexual promiscuity not quite to his taste. Hawke, almost ten years her junior, has always seemed like a little boy playing hero to her. He plays hero very well and she thinks he's good at it, but there are times when she feels the need to be sisterly at him. It certainly can't hurt, considering that he no longer has a sister of his own.

And if all things are equal, Aveline has been lonely too, from time to time. He's scratched her back by popping around to cheer her up countless times and, though he most certainly did _not_ have to, by helping her woo Donnic, despite her own lack of experience in expressing those tricky things called feelings. In a way she's glad to have the chance to return the favor.

Seeing him lying in bed looking so uncharacteristically pale, she can't help a twinge of sympathy. Fenris has done well to clean up whatever they did the night before, but it doesn't change the fact that Hawke's sweating himself dry. In just her leathers, she's quiet enough to tiptoe back out of his bedroom, armor creaking softly as she goes back downstairs and fetches him something to eat, something to drink. Water, mostly-- and crackers with cheese. Also, if he's not feeling too warm for it, she'll make sure to suggest he put some clothing back on before he catches a chill.

Stealing back up the stairs, she pauses when she hears him stirring, and sighs, realizing that he probably hasn't been washed, either. Well, baby steps. She'll get everything done before she has to go back to the Barracks and take her post for the day.

"Greet the day, soldier," she calls softly when she returns to his bedchambers, setting the small plate of food and the pitcher and flagon of water she'd acquired down on his desk. Hawke turns over in bed, blinking stupidly at the ceiling. For a moment he looks stricken and panicked, one hand giving away his thoughts as it searches the bed for a body that is not there.

She can't stand to see that pain in his face, not knowing how that magic poison is twisting around inside him on top of it all. It's not her place to tell him who to love, who deserves to be loved-- but by the Maker, Fenris truly is insensitive, isn't he? Hawke has never told her, personally, about the night he shared with the elf. Now she can guess what happened at the end of it, and her opinion of the man is taking a sharp decline.

"D'you need a hand to the chamber pot, or a wash?" She offers warmly, trying to redirect his thoughts to her. "I brought you something to help keep your strength up, but comfort's our first order of business, after all."

Hawke stares at her, the loneliness smoothed over with a slight smile at her practicality. "Do you know, I hadn't even thought about how to keep myself fed and mildly attractive through all this? My poor suitors, were it not for you."

She chuckles lightly, and at last she crosses the length of the bedroom to sit down beside him, offering him a helping hand. "I'm here to help, Hawke. Just tell me what you need."

"Your idea sounds marvelous, really. Do you have time?"

Unperturbed by his anxiety, she laughs, pulling him up and helping him over to the chamber pot with greater ease than she'd anticipated. He's not exactly steady on his feet, but his time with Fenris seems to have helped him a little. He is sluggish and still far too warm, but for the moment, at least he isn't breathing quite so raggedly. "Can you handle this on your own?" she asks, and he thinks about it, then shakes his head with a terribly uncomfortable groan of frustration.

"I'm so sorry, Aveline."

"Don't worry about it. I might as well be your sister, and I'll not let you suffer because I was too squeamish to help you out." And after that, he makes no complaint while she helps him through basic functions of the morning, all the way to feeding him the cheese and crackers, helping him steady the flagon as he greedily gulps up the water. Since he is still far too warm for clothes, they settle for changing the sheets, which she does while he sits in the chair beside his desk, drinking more water gratefully.

She cracks a grin as she's smoothing out the new sheets on his bedspread.

"If you were a horse I'd worry about you getting colic," she jokes wryly, turning back to see him frozen mid-gulp, as if he has been caught in the midst of an act far more compromising than drinking water. Setting the flagon down, he laughs weakly, drying his mouth with the back of one hand.

"It just occurred to me why this might be a bad idea. D'you think you could mover the chamber pot closer to my bed in case-- well, since I'll need it?" She tosses a single, red sheet made of something softer than linen out over the bedspread, lets it fall mostly in place, and wordlessly collects the chamber pot, moving it closer to his bed with an understanding nod.

It's an hour yet before she's on-duty when she finishes remaking the bed and guides him to it, easing him into the now-clean covers and stroking his hair from his face with a soft, fond smile. She tells him, "I could do without you reminding me of Wesley, you know," and tries not to wince when he begins turning his face subconsciously into the stroke of her fingers, greedily seeking that contact, his eyes fluttering.

"I don't want to steal that from you," he promises, in a low tone that sounds vulnerable to her. Self-deprecating. "I'm not the man your husband was. Or is."

"No," she agrees, laughing. His surprise is refreshing, because that breaks through the haze of the strange spell and his eyes go round as she leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. "But I do love you, Hawke."

If, perhaps, they both are misty-eyed, neither is rude enough to point it out.

"Just try not to die. For my sake."

And then there he goes surprising her again, because he tells her seriously, "Yes, Captain." and, when she gives a start, smiles that lopsided, charmingly open smile of his. "I've always...wanted to say that."

His room seems smaller when she's not just looking at it as she passes by, when she has to sit by his side, stroking his brow with her careful fingers, watching with sympathy as he struggles with the desire to respond to such pleasant stimulus and the desire to conceal his embarrassing feelings from her. Still-- that is one of the things she thinks she can do for him.

She tugs on his ear, surprising him into opening his eyes. "A-ah?"

"Before I go, if-- you need any advice on what to do or how to do it-- I wanted to offer to help." When he doesn't seem, at first, to understand, she elaborates. "You've never been with anyone before Fenris, have you, Hawke?"

Understanding is fairly obvious, as it is accompanied by a dramatic flush that spreads down his neck as he squeezes his eyes shut, seeming to think he might be able to deny her frankness if he pretends she isn't talking about it. "I-- I-- no," he admits, after a few false starts. "N-no one but him. And-- y-yesterday was--" He stops, frowning down at his hands, obviously not sure if he wants to admit it to her, to go down this path.

"If you're not comfortable talking about it," she interjects quickly, trying to reassure him. "That's all right with me. Just offering if you think it might help-- make things easier, you know?"

He nods. He does know; and he trusts her. "...it was the second time," he breathes at last, still blushing so hard it's a wonder he doesn't pass out. "I- I don't want to talk about it too much but-- I like it-- I like some things-- I mean, I had heard about it plenty from Carver bragging and just--" She pats his arm and he sighs loudly, agitated. "Maker, you must think I'm terribly sheltered."

"You're an apostate," she counters easily. "Didn't you once tell me your father lied to you and your sister about kissing and barns catching on fire, or something of the sort?"

With a grimace and a laugh, he is comfortable again. She likes him best when he is comfortable with her; just as it was reassuring to have Carver insult her as if she were family, it's a good sign when Hawke feels he can truly be himself with her. Even if he is naked in his bed, and has to endure his own body's failings until he is cured. "I just don't know the first thing about what to do. I have-- _ideas_ , I've read books--"

"Varric's books?"

"Maker, no, I tried and I nearly caught fire myself." He rolled his eyes miserably. "I'm certain it's enjoyable for some folks to do the sorts of things he was writing about but I don't even know exactly how you'd _do_ them, let alone why." She entertains the notion that maybe, just maybe, Varric had written his sordid series of tales about her and her husband to tease persons other than herself, but she doubted it.

"Well, what all _do_ you know? Be frank with me. The more we know, the more I can help you try to make the best of a bad situation."

He fidgets again, looking as though he'd prefer to hide under the sheets. He's also beginning to look a bit vague in the eyes again, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she realizes he's unlikely to retain much of anything as time passes. "I know I prefer men," he begins. She's not surprised, and he seems to take confidence from the fact that she only nods. "And-- ah. I-- well, when Fenris and I--"

Stop; start. He's horribly nervous; she puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Maker, I don't know if I can do this," he murmurs wearily. "Even sleeping together last night was more like a dream than anything." Though he doesn't add _a bad dream, too, where you wake up and it may as well have not happened_ but she can feel it in his voice and decides she'll just have to talk to Fenris about the whole situation. Later. "I've never been-- Uncle Gamlen would say I'm the 'girl'," he mutters bitterly. "But what's the etiquette when you're having sex? Do you talk when you’re m-- can you? Fenris is so--" he shivers, and the hungry look in his eyes grows more intense. "-- _focused_. Efficient. But I-- I don't know, I want--"

"You want to do all the foreplay and cuddling parts?" She supplies helpfully. "You're not only 'allowed' to talk when you're having sex, you really ought to do it to make sure he knows he isn't hurting you." He seems about to say something, but sees the suspicion in her eyes and stifles it, smiling instead.

Oh, yes. She will be having _words_ with Fenris. Small ones. Briefly. With her fist attached to them.

But later. For now, she is almost out of time, and she catches his eyes. This next bit is important. "I can't speak for everyone, Hawke, but if we have to do this to you, I think we want it to be as painless as possible. That means 'pleasant for you', and the best way to help us know whether you're enjoying yourself will be to talk about it."

Seconds pass with Hawke growing less like himself by the instant. He nods, but has a groggy look to him that is entirely unrelated to how well he slept the night before. She stays beside him, murmuring and talking until he is beyond responding to her in anyway but pressing needily into the touch of her fingers stroking through his hair, even still.

It's time for her to go, and she knows Isabela will be along soon.

"Take care, Hawke," she says, as she's leaving his room. He has just enough of his senses left to smile crookedly back.

***

When she enters the Hawke estate, Isabela is expecting at least a muffled shout of dismay, some sign that she is known to be coming and Hawke is in his usual spirits. (Squishy, shy, wriggly spirits, which are the best of all.) At least, she is hoping him well enough to complain about events, even though they are the serious sort. Nothing greets her, save the depressing emptiness of a deserted household. It is disturbingly familiar, and she puts thoughts of the life she left so long ago behind her with a stamp of her foot, announcing herself belligerently.

"I'm coming up there, Hawke! And I've got a nice present for you, so you'd better be grateful!" Imagine that; her, giving things away! But this is a task she looks forward to, and even though she's still met with silence, she dashes up the stairs with abandon, taking the last three in one great big leap.

On the second floor, she is close enough to catch the sound of his labored breathing. Without delay, she enters Hawke's bedroom and is, to her surprise, presented with his naked body, huddled and shivering on the floor beside the bed. His eyes are open but curiously dark with lust and pain.

"Bugger." This already is not, precisely, as fun as Isabela had hoped she might be able to make the day, but she isn't going to let a bad start deter her. They have a lot of time to pass, after all. "What are you doing there?"

He doesn't answer, though he groans softly when she kneels beside him and her hair trails over his shoulder.

This gives her pause, and she smiles slightly. "Liked that, did you." She lets her fingers steal out to his shoulder, slipping down the length of his arm to stroke the curls of his pubic hair, sliding lower until her palm rests on the head of his very, very erect-- mast. Even that slight pressure makes his eyes cross, and the sound of desire that escapes his throat is awfully compelling. "Mm. I think I like that, too."

"Please," he pants, hips twitching up into her hand. She braces her other palm against his chest, pinning him back to the wall (which he seems to like _entirely_ too much). His heart is racing, she can feel it now, there under her fingers. "Please."

"Barely even in there right now, aren’t you?" Isabela sighs, much-suffered. When she waves a hand before his eyes, they do not track the motion and as a whole, he seems focused on someplace faraway. It's not that she’s against assisting him as promised-- promises are after all promises, and this particular promise promises to be, potentially, very fun-- so much as that she was hoping he'd be conscious and talking to her for the duration.

She decides that this is not precisely what she signed up for. But he can still have his present. When he is aware enough to goggle at it for her full amusement.

"All right, let's try something a little tame and have a look at whether that actually helps you any, eh?" She purrs, shifting her hand down to grab Hawke's steering and drive him toward something a bit more satisfying than humping the bed must have been. If he _didn’t_ knock himself out of the bed trying to hump it she really has no idea just what Hawke was doing that put him down here. It will forever remain a mystery.

"Got to admit, curious as I was about the goods I hadn't expected you to be quite so _lucky_!" She purrs, more to herself than anything. Not that Hawke is listening, so far as she can tell. No matter; Isabela has had conversations entirely by herself while sex was happening before, and is hardly daunted. It's a shame that Hawke can't participate in her diatribe at the moment. His body is certainly appreciative, though, and she slows the speed of her strokes, loosens her grip to ease up on the pressure, and presses her palm to the head of his dick to deny him release. Even with these concessions, it's over very, very fast.

Hawke's whole body pulls taut when he comes in a telling way, and his mouth shapes words that do not find voice as he shudders and shakes with it. She hadn't really believed his blushing virgin act so much but-- well, when a man's that quick, even with the fabulous excuse Hawke's got, usually it doesn't mean that his ship's seen a lot of action on the high seas. When it's over and he has to deal with the slimy reality of his own release on his belly, he lifts his hands awkwardly to catch it before it runs off of him. Drowsily, Hawke looks down at himself with mild confusion. It's immediately obvious that Merrill's suggestion was correct; his eyes finally focus and, though he has trouble lifting his head again, he manages to smile weakly at her.

"You have this incredibly terrifying blackmail sort of look in your eye and I'm never going to hear the end of it, am I?" Threads of pain still linger in his voice but he seems to have grown a little numb to it, and sounds more weary than anything else. “I don’t suppose I could strong-arm you into getting me a towel or something for this.”

"Maker, you sound so pitiful I almost feel bad," she sighs, grinning as she goes to his writing desk in search of something suitable to mop up his mess. Aveline has left a pitcher of water there, and a plate with crumbs. Good idea, that-- she'll have to remember to make lunch-- and near these are poultices, healing salves-- no bandages or towels, though. "Well, balls. I'd like to help you, but I haven't the faintest where you keep your towels. Ideas?”

Hawke meets her query with a helpless look that says Bodahn runs his entire household for him. Of course he does. She throws up her hands in mock-disgust, laughing under her breath.

“All right, failing a towel, what have you got lying around that you don’t mind me wiping you up with?"

Hawke blinks fuzzily at her, his brow furrowing as he tries to think of something suitable. "I could just use the sheets, I suppose."

"Pfft." Rolling her eyes, she continues to scour his room for a discarded bit of clothing or a suitable rag. Eventually she does find one of his robes lying forgotten near his chest of clothing, clearly torn beyond repair. " _Here_ we are. I'll have you dry in no time, Hawke. Don’t get up."

“Very funny,” he groans, pressing his face into the bed. He does look awful, and though it’s not as overpowering as it could be, he smells very strongly of sweat. Apparently, rinsing Hawke down with a bucket of water wasn’t on Aveline’s list of things to do. Isabela considers adding it to her own. There’s a lot to do before she gets there, though.

Tearing a strip of the worn robe’s moldering cloth free, she returns to his side, mopping up his mess and tossing the rag to the floor casually. “There we are. Good as new. And, may I say, _ravishing._ ”

“If you must ravish me, please help me into the bed,” Hawke mutters plaintively. Lurking beneath his grumbly exterior is a flicker of his usual humor, trying to shine through. Complain all he might, he seems to like being flattered. “It’s a bit uncomfortable on the floor.”

“Flashbacks to Gamlen’s hut, I bet.” He shudders at _that_ vivid image and gives her a wry look of chagrin. _This_ is more like it. Reassured that things are back on track, Isabela helps him to stand, pulling him with a hand for each hand and, when he falls heavily toward her, twists so that they topple onto the bed, his body is caught beneath hers, hands still in her hands.

Hawke gasps, the fever-flush spreading down his neck, and grinds his hips up into Isabela’s knees, whimpering when she turns her head to flick her tongue over one of his nipples. She could easily tease him like this all day and never get tired of it, but sits up straight, straddling him, when his eyes open again. With an imperious air, she pulls his hands, still caught in her own, up to her breasts, forcing him to cup them. His fingers are as shy as the rest of him, pulling back at first and then slowly relaxing when she doesn’t let go his wrists, forcing him to keep touching her a bit longer.

Slowly, curiously, he squeezes. This test yields the most goggle-eyed look she's ever seen on him. She can’t help it; she laughs. “Yes, in my experience breasts are awfully nice. Feel their soothing healing power _flow_ through you."

“They’re—very soft,” he breathes, sounding entirely disbelieving. “Andraste’s—“ he catches himself, and shakes his head a moment, speechless. “This is _too_ bizarre.” As soon as she lets go his wrists, he releases his grip on her breasts, letting his hands fall to the bed and writhing, just a bit, where she has pinned him. She has eyes and common sense, and shifts her weight to her knees, pressing herself down a little more tightly over him. His breath catches.

“Doubt you heard me before,” she says conversationally, reaching into the sheath at her hip usually reserved for her back-up dagger. Today she’s stuffed it with a small stone idol, delicately carved to mirror the phallic shape of a perfectly curved 'mast' and polished so smooth it’s almost slippery to the touch. Hawke’s face when she pulls it free is priceless. Slightly more lusty than it is goggle-eyed. She can all but hear the thoughts he is having about what he could do with something like _that_.

He gulps, still staring, a little pale. “What is that, exactly?”

“Your present.”

“Ah.” He clears his throat, licking his lips as he tries to shift beneath her and finds he is too expertly trapped to do so. His erection is already nudging her again and when she rocks her hips back to graze it with her body, he shudders hard, moaning. It passes, and he lifts, then drops his head against the bed with a tired, frustrated sigh. “I am not going to last for a week.”

Grinning, she leans forward again, dangling the idol before him teasingly, resting its tip on his nose. He does not seem capable of disguising his interest, and watches it with a pale sense of longing. “Your present may just be useful there.” He gurgles with pleasure when she rocks her hips back again, this time harder, pushing him deeper into the bed and grinding the tip of his erection against her backside. “D’you want me to give it to you?”

“Wh-what,” he gasps, trying to sound appropriately embarrassed and failing miserably. His voice is aching with curiosity and desire. It gives her tingles in her belly. “R-right now?”

“Of course, right now! You’re not interested in the ladies, are you? Especially not after the way you touched _these_ luscious beauties.” She taps her chest, making a moue of tragedy. “I mayn’t be able to provide you with all the brooding and whatnot Fenris does, but I know my way around novelty items, and most novelty items are a lot like the pricks they're trying to mimic.”

The strangest thing about having Hawke pinned beneath her legs is the way he begins running his fingers along the lines of her thighs, sending traitorous thrills through her. He doesn’t seem to notice what his hands are doing. He only blinks, looking dimly up at her as he considers the merit of the stone idol she’s offering him. Considering how aroused and intrigued he has become, she can only assume it’s inexperience that’s holding him back.

That just won’t do. “D’you not know how to put it in? Or maybe you're having second thoughts about ladyparts, hey?” Her crooked grin is met with an even deeper flush. “I think it’s safe to say, based on your bedroom manner," she says frankly, "that you would enjoy having this rammed up your arse.”

He actually chokes for a moment on a squeak of embarrassment, coughing the next as he gasps for breath. “I—you—“ Lost and floundering and pinned very tellingly beneath her and _liking_ it—Hawke gives up after a few more struggles, looking worried more than he does aroused. She takes note, and sits up carefully, not wanting to crush the breath out of him.

Unless perhaps he’s into that?

“The thing is, I'm not very...” he swallows thickly, averting his eyes from hers and steeling himself. “Well, and last night Fenris—“ Her eyes gleam and he pauses, giving her a suspicious look. “—you just want to hear about him, don’t you.”

“Why, no! I’m interested in both of you."

"Isabela."

She strokes the side of his face with the idol, appreciating the way his eyes go half-lid and he turns toward it, licking its tip despite the fact that it's only made of stone. "I'm here in your room about to fuck your arse with this fabulous piece of equipment, and you doubt my interest in _you_? Really?"

A noise somewhere between 'frustrated moan' and 'pleading' is her only answer.

"Go on, what were you going to tell me?"

He grits his teeth as she wriggles against him again, shivering, eyes screwed shut as she traces his lips with the idol. _That_ makes him open his mouth, willingly accepting it when she pushes deeper. Of course, this prevents her from getting her answer, but she's so delighted to feel him writhing with renewed vigor beneath her that she doesn't really mind.

Pulling it back and free of his lips (he is sucking: there's a soft 'pop!'), she leans back enough to force him to look up at her. "Go on. Last night with Fenris--?"

Hawke's hands are squeezing her thighs now. He still seems uncomfortable speaking of such things, but he tries anyway. "I'm _sore_. So I don't know--"

"Oh! We'll use some of the healing salve, then. Wouldn't want to push this into you dry, anyway."

"Why not?" He asks, seeming slightly confused. For once, Isabela finds herself goggling at _him_ , a little bit horrified. No wonder the lad's sore. Apparently Hawke isn't the only one desperately in need of sexual education. "What is it?" But she doesn't answer, just crawls off of him and goes to his writing desk again, pouring half a vial of the bluish green healing salve over the stone idol. This particular salve has a lovely watercress sort of smell, and she purrs at it, getting her hands good and slick before returning to Hawke on his bed. He hasn't moved, except to try to follow her motions, still clearly confused. When she kneels down between his knees, his first inclination is to try to close them and keep her away.

She sighs good-naturedly. Even threesoming it with Chaste King Alistair and his lovely wife had been less difficult than this. Perhaps because dear Alistair was a little bit less repressed and sexually frustrated than Hawke. Somehow. Setting the idol on the floor between his feet, carefully balanced on its wide base so it will not topple and lose any of the slick salve coating it now, she turns her attention to Hawke in earnest. "Come on, Hawke. It won't be so bad."

"That's not it, I j--" He hisses as she presses his knees apart and traces a finger experimentally around his abused anus. She makes an answering sound of apology, seeing the slight bruising there, and makes sure that where she touches, she leaves a trail of the salve behind, soothing the damage away. It sinks readily into his skin, and with a few more probing touches she wriggles one finger in. Hawke's knees twitch with an impulse to close but she's bracing them open with her shoulder against one and her right leg pushing away the other. She knew full well what she was getting into when she got started here, and she's not about to take a knee to her chin if she can help it.

It's slow going. Hawke responds very, very favorably to her wiggling that first knuckle around, and seems to enjoy it when she slips a second finger in, slowly thrusting her hand to give him an idea of where this is all leading. The more she touches him, pressing healing salve into his bruises, the better he seems to feel. Fear fades, leaving only need, only pleasure with undercurrents of that constant pain he's becoming accustomed to. At least that's not her fault, just the poison.

"You know," She slips a third finger into him and stretches all three wide. The smell of watercress is beginning to overpower the smell of Hawke's sweat, and every time she stretches her fingers out, Hawke's hips jerk up off of the bed, bracing his right knee on her shoulder. Teasingly, she begins to wriggle her fingers, index to ring and back. "I'd have thought you had at least a lay or two under your belt before old Broody came along. You're too much of a catch for folks to turn down. Why didn't you ever go for anyone before now?"

To his credit, Hawke is working hard at the difficult task of not passing out, clawing at the sheets while she curls her three fingers tight within him-- straightens and _curls_ \-- simulating the thrusting he so avidly desires. He is oddly quiet for someone in the throes of passion, but she'll cure him of that soon enough. Definitely a bad case of modesty. "I--" he answers hoarsely, the word breaking in his throat as she happens upon a particularly delicious angle. "Oh," he whispers weakly. " _Oh--_ "

"C'mon, Hawke, make some pretty noises for me," Isabela teases, angling her hand to strike that same area with gentle but insistent fingertips, rubbing in soothing circles that make the muscles of Hawke's thighs jump, make his knees jerk warningly again. His eyes are screwed shut and he howls, finally letting go that damnable self-control and just _taking it._

It's a little flattering that he shouts her name. Maybe-- maybe makes her heart skip a bit, just a little, thinking of what could have been. "Isabela-- _flames, Isabela, what are you **doing?**_ "

"I," she enunciates smugly, keeping her motions the same, "am finger-fucking you."

"Oh, _hell_!" Hawke's hands grip the sheets so tightly she hears one of them tearing about. "Y-you-- are you going to--"

He can't think, and that's clear enough from the way his eyes roll back and he trails off into a long, low moan of pleasure. Seeing him like this, she's fairly certain he's beyond the realm of coherent speech. With that in mind, she supplies helpfully, "D'you mean to ask, 'am I going to fuck you with that delicious looking toy I brought you'?"

He nods, panting, licking his lips. It’s the needy crooning sound he makes that stops her just doing it then and there.

"You want me to, right? I'll not put you into something you don't like, Hawke."

This is the right thing to say; she can feel it in the way his body suddenly, strangely, _relaxes_ , as if he's been expecting her tender ministrations to suddenly turn rough. _Oh, Hawke,_ she wants to whisper, and lay kisses on his stomach and tease his nipples with her thumbs. He actually starts to laugh, chuckling in between those fabulously ardent, urgent moans. "Damn it, Isabela, what's it going to take for you to fuck me with that?"

She grins cheekily. "You could beg, I like begging. But asking's good enough." Pulling her fingers free, she grabs the still-slick idol from where she had it safely positioned on the floor, pressing it to the pucker of his ass, hesitating a moment when he hisses at the cool sensation of the healing salve. "Tell me how you like it," she says with a flash of teeth and feeling of almost possessive jealousy. She'd been annoyed with Hawke, once or twice, for seeming oblivious to her advances and worse, stealing Fenris's affections off where she couldn't enjoy them herself. With Hawke in her lap, as it were, suddenly it's Fenris she's envious of.

Lucky bastard!

Hawke's answer is slow in coming, because most of his being is focused on how the idol's cool, unyielding stone feels as it slides slowly into him, thicker than Isabela's fingers, longer, smoother. The sounds he makes are intoxicating, and when he tries to speak she almost misses it. His words are barely more coherent than feral growling. " _Rough._ I like—like it harder and faster than that," he purrs, rolling his hips to push the idol deeper inside of himself and shuddering at the pleasant sensation that runs up his spine in response.

"Andraste's dimpled arse, Hawke, it’s downright sinful to see you like this." In fact, her throat is a little dry. It really is a pity he isn’t more curious about ladyparts.

"Fuck. Me," he growls plaintively, and will not stop wriggling his hips to try to make her do so until she gets a good grip on the wide base of the idol and begins to take up a steady rhythm, plunging it deep into him and only letting it slide free a third of its length before she repeats the forward gesture.

This seems to hit exactly the right spot of Hawke's desperate need: shorter distance, less effort, more control and she knows the salve will stay slicker when it is not being rubbed off on such deep strokes. She can pump the toy faster, can watch the way Hawke's mouth shapes delicious words but can't give them voice, breathless as he is.

She wonders what his mantra is: not many words, but over and over, interrupted only by sucking, gasping breaths, by cries of pleasure and encouragement. "More," he is hissing, when she finally pushes him over the edge, his hands still twisted in the sheets, more semen spraying along his belly. For good measure, Isabela keeps pumping her arm with abandon until he has ridden the length of his orgasm out. When his body slowly stills, she relaxes her grip, leaving the toy snug inside him, and starts to laugh.

Wearily, smiling blissfully (almost shy, and something about that is just so-- cute), he lays spent on the bed, watching her with some strange gratitude she doesn't want to understand. When she shakes her head, turning away to find that rag she'd tossed aside so she can reuse it to try to preserve his dignity, he speaks up. No evading that look, it seems. His voice is a little rough with all the sounds he made at her request, but he seems damned pleased with himself. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

"What?" She asks, with a light laugh. "My talented hand?"

"Just-- how to do this. These sorts of things." He shifts, feels the idol shift within him, rubbing against all the right places, and _groans_ , a bundle of annoyed, surprised, and yet deeply aroused all at the same time. " _Maker_ , that feels--" He hasn't words, just hisses, rolling his hips to push the idol around inside of himself, licking his lips innocently as it nestles in places he likes. With a soft, hissing sigh, he opens his eyes again, half-lidded out of weariness, but clearer still than they were before.

Isabela smiles a lopsided sort of grin, and lets his knees go at last, standing from the bed and offering him a hand. "Want to have a rinse before we do anything else?"

"Yes, please." His laughter is infectious, and soon they are all smiles, trading embarrassing secrets in soft voices as she helps him into his small bathing chamber and pours a bucket or three of icy water over him (interspersed with good scrubbing and soap). For fun, they leave the idol in, just to see if it's doing its job.

By the time she's got him smelling like a normal person again (not, of course, that it will last), Hawke is fighting not to get hard again just from sitting there.

They've moved downstairs because Hawke has expressed boredom, and she makes him sit in her lap naked while she sprawls in his most illustrious and opulent chair. As she rolls her hips up, he starts to follow her lead, trying to grind down.

Determined to put a stop to that, she grabs him by his ass and keeps him still. "Now, now, love. Hold up a second." Just a bit, she can't help squeezing, which elicits a rumbly noise of pleasure from deep in his chest. "You are _bad_ ," she laughs. "Now what's your hurry, Hawke? We've got all day, and you're only going to get sore again if you don't take it easy here and there in between."

"You could always actually get naked," he suggests, perhaps a little more hopefully than she'd expected. "It might put me more at ease."

"Is that a spark of _interest_ I detect?" Just for kicks, she squeezes again, digging her fingers into the supple skin of his lovely, smooth buttocks. "Interest in a naked woman, no less?"

Hissing, he cranes his head around to look at her over his shoulder, eyes glimmering with a desire that nearly makes her blush like some Chantry virgin. "I- I'll retract that request if you'll promise to keep fondling me like that, at least."

"I'll do you one better," she promises, laying a kiss between his shoulder blades, reveling in the way his muscles twitch, his breath catches. Every time she does these gentle things he has such a look of wonder. "I'll keep fondling you like this _and_ get naked with you. Just don't feel obligated to have at if you're not interested. I'm here for _you_ today. Sometime when you're not all poisoned by bloodmage rituals and things, if you still want to try it, we'll do that then."

With a soft laugh, he crawls off of her lap, kneeling by her feet and nuzzling between her knees. "I feel rather clear-headed at the moment, honestly."

"You do, do you?" Mocking him with a raised eyebrow and eyeing him with disbelief, she runs her now-clean hands through his still-wet hair, combing it until his eyes are half lid with pleasure and he has stilled, leaning into the touch and making a vague sound of happiness. As soon as she stops, he seems to remember himself, but this time he flushes with embarrassment.

"Point taken." Swallowing thickly, he sets about nuzzling her again, sliding his hands up her thighs to catch the thread of her underclothes and pull them down. She lifts her hips to let him, unfastening her tunic and pulling that aside as well. Just like that, she's in nothing but boots and gloves, and he presses a kiss to her knee, drinking in the sight of her with fascinated eyes.

It's mildly disconcerting, but flattering, too. Now that he's able to see everything he seems interested in giving her breasts another squeeze-- gently thumbs one nipple, grips the whole of the breast in his fingers, and licks his lips, intrigued by the way the skin pulls tight under his touch, by the way he can see _her_ arousal.

"I always thought it wouldn't be fair, with a girl," he admits with a hesitant but happy grin. "Wouldn't be able to tell if she liked you or not, but she'd know for sure if _you_ did.

"Any girl worth her salt in bed's going to tell you very clearly that she _likes_ you. Especially you. _Definitely_ you." Isabela pulls him closer, up, up, until he is sitting in her lap again, this time kneeling on top of her. She slides her hands beneath his balls, teasing them lightly before she catches the edge of the idol. It's slipped an inch or two out of him, so she helpfully pushes it back up, watches him throw his head back and shudder, groaning pitifully for more.

That is perhaps the sexiest thing any man's ever done for her. She shifts her own legs forward, lifting them and hooking her knees over his ankles, trapping him so that he has to lean forward, burying his face in the plush fabric of the chair, hands braced on the armrests.

Once she's satisfied that he can't buck away, she lazily begins pressing her fingers back and forth, sliding the idol in and out of him in a casual rhythm that soon has him begging for more. Not just begging, either-- she's had her share of whiny begging from annoying partners not quite as enjoyable as she'd hoped once naked.

No, Hawke's voice stays deep and rich, like thunder about to break, and he shifts his hands to her breasts, squeezing them gently in time to the rhythm she has set. He murmurs, face only a little bit above hers: "This is-- perfect," his voice is strained and he licks his lips. "Isabela," and he's panting "Isabela, _please_ , don't stop."

She doesn't. She doesn't go faster, either, or harder, or rougher or even deeper. She calmly fucks him with the easy twitch of her hand, fingering herself with the other while he rubs his soft thumbs over her nipples. Her hands, she realizes with some amusement, are more callused than his.

When Hawke is near another orgasm, she snaps her fingers a bit more sharply, striking with just a touch more force, and commands him like any good Captain commands her crewmen. "When I say 'come', Hawke, I want you to spill your load on my tits. D'you think you can do that for me?"

He gulps, shuddering as her insistent ministrations wear through any concern he might have. "I- I think so, I'm not-- _ah_ \-- I'm not sure?"

"Trust me," she asks him, making her voice a delicate whisper, filling the tone of it with all the love she feels for him.

He pulls back what little he can, meeting her eyes, looking at her so searchingly she doesn't flash a smile or try to glance away. When he nods, she pushes harder, speeds her strokes-- her hand won't cramp for a bit yet-- and watches him just as he's watching her, cataloguing every tremor, the smell of his freshly scrubbed skin. When she hits the right rhythm he starts biting his lip, slowly closing his eyes as he desperately fights _not_ to let himself pass over that brink of pleasure until she commands it, whole body taut and waiting.

She judges when he can't possibly hold it anymore and commands him, breathlessly, "Come!"

It might be the sound of her voice, but it's just as likely the toy in his arse, striking sparks off some particularly pleasant angle. Either way, Hawke obeys her beautifully, mouth open in an exquisite, tortured moan. His fingers are pinching her nipples and she's very near getting off herself, though she doesn't finish it, savoring the warmth of his surrender on her skin, the sudden weariness as he slumps down atop her, burying his face in her shoulder with an exhausted grunt.

"I think I'd best clean you up and put you to bed a while, Hawke." Very carefully, she slides the rock idol back out of him, all the way, careful to follow the curve of his body so it doesn't jam painfully as it's sliding out. There's a little resistance-- his body still clamped tight around the object of such pleasure-- but it seems to be the last thing that was keeping him conscious. When she looks at him again, he's sleeping peacefully, and Isabela has to laugh. "Oh, you poor dear. I keep meaning to talk to you but you're so damned ravishable."

He doesn't answer. It's up to her to disengage their complicated position, clean the toy and leave it promisingly on his writing desk upstairs. Once there, she throws herself down on the bed with abandon and gladly takes the time to finish doing _herself_ (no sense wasting good feelings and she feels it's all right to _wank_ a little since it can't hurt Hawke). Only after she’s had a few minutes to appreciate what a very fine day it’s been so far does she return downstairs with a warm, wet cloth, cleaning the both of them and Hawke's chair up. He doesn’t stir as she settles him in said chair more proper-like, throwing the red sheet she brought down from his room over him before she steps back into her discarded clothing, ties her belt with a smug smile.

"Well, then." She bows to the Master of the house, grinning cheekily. Not fair how perfectly innocent Hawke looks, sleeping, but it certainly suits him. "If you're going to have a nap, I think it's high time I ruined all the alphabetizing in your little library and rummaged through your fabulous liquors. I'll be back if you holler."

And of course, he doesn't for hours; and by then her stomach's rumbling, and their conversation is, again, waylaid as she goes about the complicated mess of figuring out where Bodahn keeps the food so she can get together something for them to eat. Hawke accurately asserts his own uselessness with his belongings in apology, and Isabela accepts. She has him until the evening. No sense admitting that she never knew where anything was in her own household, back when she'd had one. That is a secret for another day.


	4. Chapter 4

In retrospect, Sebastian thinks, as he is pinned to a column by the fingers of a great ghost hand, they were stupid not to have followed up on the letter that had originally drawn Hawke to the Wounded Coast in search of the mysterious (and evidently non-existent) Hanora.

These are the last thoughts he has before time seems to unfold all over again, the last day blooming through his mind as he feels his heart beating fit to burst from his chest, hears himself distantly screaming in pain, his body jerking weakly under the onslaught of his own blood. The mage that has entered his mind is adept at her art. After that first second, he almost forgets that he has already lived these moments.

The chapel. Birds singing. He is standing near a window, lighting candles for prayers, fighting the tremor of his hands. Dark things are in his mind, dark and unhappy things, swirling, billowing, blanketing all the goodness of this gentle morning. His thoughts are for Hawke, his friend and companion in combat, his unwitting and unhappy confidant. Sebastian has yet to come to terms with the discovery of Hawke's inexperience the night before, let alone the demands made of him by the others. Varric especially had been irate to hear his firm denial, strengthened by Hawke's understanding.

 _The exact words, what were they?_

"I don't want any of you to suffer for me," Hawke's voice, feeble, uncharacteristically shallow in pain--

 _The **dwarf's** words!_ (Pain, pain, pain such as Sebastian has never known, pain that is in the thinking of thoughts, that fills his whole body like a well in a maelstrom and he gags on it, feels something hot and wet seeping from his eyes, too thick to be tears--)

"Don't be stubborn, Choirboy," Varric says, glaring up at him, and Sebastian feels unsteady in the present but in the memory, he was firm. "You heard what the experts said. If we don't all pitch in, it might not work and we'll lose him."

He says, "I cannot aid in that capacity. Like Aveline, I have other obligations." His mind is uneasy, rife with impure half-memories of things he has done before, all the things he could do if he were willing. And Hawke wouldn't mind, though Hawke also doesn't mind if Sebastian decides to keep those memories only memories and shadows and remains as he has for all these years. His choice. His life. His body. "I am sorry, Varric. I cannot do this."

The hold eases on his mind suddenly, and there's the same sting of a wound after the weapon that made it is pulled away of blood flowing and nerves screaming in the realization that the object present wasn't meant to be there. He sinks to his knees in a daze, blinking blood from his eyes, coughing up bile as he falls to his hands and heaves. While Sebastian is retching, he can hear the others fighting nearby. Aveline, Carver, Fenris. He dimly remembers Aveline asking them to come along to let Carver known what had happened-- remembers that she'd said not to share the sordid details, as Carver might never stop teasing his brother for them and Hawke would, consequently, never forgive them. Fenris had said amiably that her choices were wise.

Sebastian remembers, as his stomach settles and he pushes himself slowly to his feet, reorienting himself, that there had been a strange tightness to Aveline's mouth. He shakes all of the confusion from his head that he can, groping for his bow where it had dropped on the stone ground of the Gallows, and pulls and arrow from his quiver, nocking it on the most wounded of the three blood mages who are surrounding the Guard Captain, loosing it through the woman's throat. Perhaps it is something of a crime before the Maker, but with his head still sore as an infected wound, Sebastian can only hiss in pleasure as he sees the answering gout of un-magicked blood and the mage drops dead at Aveline's feet.

Now, only four shambling corpses (one of whom, he notes grimly, used to be Tranquil) and two temporarily enthralled Templars remain, along with the two mages.

He shouts to Carver, who is fending off most of the corpses and one of his fellows, "Carver! Down!"

They work together without flaw, without pause. Carver is down, another arrow flies, this time knocking the templar's helmet right by the ear, so sharply that it stuns him. When he recovers, he is working in tandem with Carver, and--

It's only then that Sebastian counts up short. _Fenris_. Whirling to his right, then his left, Sebastian searches for the elf in vain. Aveline lets out a bellow of rage that makes Sebastian shudder, glad it's not his own body breaking under the force of her shield. The blood mages are dead or drawing their last breaths and the other temporarily enthralled templar reclaims himself, staggering around in a daze. Aveline sees what Sebastian has seen, and Carver does too. They don't trade words, just turn as one unit and _move_ , rushing for the dock just in time to see three more blood mages, Fenris caught between them, rowing back to shore.

Carver swears up a storm, even as Sebastian is rushing for the next boat, untying it as quickly as he can. Aveline snarls, reaches out to catch Carver's armguard, and stops him. "No. You've got to tell them what's going on or your Knight-Commander's going to raise a bloody tantrum. I can't have her marching through the city in search of these bastards and driving them deeper into hiding. Find your Captain at least; let him know what's afoot. Then catch up."

At several strategic points in this order, Aveline could have stopped for breath, but didn't. Now that she does, turning away and joining Sebastian in the boat, Carver doesn't protest-- a strange thing to see, stranger still considering what little Sebastian knows of the antagonism between the two in the past-- instead whirling on his heel and rushing straight back up into the Gallows to shout to the other two templars that he's got their back and they need the Knight-Captain right away. Maker preserve them all, this can't be good.

"Are you all right?" Aveline asks, as she takes up the oars and Sebastian handles the rudder. Her expression is a mystery, but he can hear the slight concern feathering in her voice. "I saw you drop out of the fight a moment. One of them get you a bit?"

It is somehow very humbling, to have Aveline Vallen always mothering him in that strangely affectionate manner mothers are supposed to mother. Sebastian doesn't ordinarily appreciate it, as they're so close in age they might as well be twins. But this time, he tries to suppress his almost petulantly defensive answer. That would be unbecoming and also get them nowhere. "I'll be better once we've found Fenris, but I hope we catch up to them sooner, rather than later."

Her grim nod reminds him of that earlier twitch, but he doesn't comment on it. Aveline has been giving Fenris serious looks all morning. Perhaps something was said between them when she had taken the early morning watch for Hawke while Fenris yet lingered after the previous evening. That is all Sebastian can assume; it would explain why the two had already been traveling together when they'd arrived in the Chantry in search of him.

Their tense silence does not ease up when they reach the docks proper, and Sebastian surprises himself by breaking out into a run, following his instincts for shadow and keeping to walls as naturally as if he were twelve again, trying to sneak out and pretend he was older to turn a few ladies' heads. Aveline clanks behind him, slowed by her armor and taking a different route to cover more ground. He swallows back the urge pray, suspecting that in this situation, it will only succeed in giving away his pursuit, should he be close behind those he follows.

Up the stairs to Lowtown and rounding a bend, he catches sight of the blood mages and, leading them, Fenris-- taking the jerky, half-willing steps of one in partial thrall. Each step, Sebastian can see, is a battle: Fenris is hurting himself as he fights not to lead them where they wish, muscles twisting in protest, bones straining against them, ripping Fenris slowly apart from the inside. He is bruised everywhere, and another step seems to break the fight in him, just as Sebastian finishes nocking three arrows in a careful spread and fires them. Two are true, striking one mage in his shoulder, another through his back. Their robes stain a slightly darker red as they turn, snarling, and the mage he missed motions to their last companion, shouting _keep going, we'll meet up with you there!_

Not good, Sebastian thinks, in the split second before the three mages renew their hold on his mind. He freezes in midst of pulling out another arrow and slowly, slowly they force his mouth open, the hand gripping the feathered fletching of one arrow, the haft of another. Gasping, he tries not to let them bring his arm up, pushing the arrowheads down his own throat, but he can't stop and the effort only tires him. It has no effect on the mages at all; in fact, the unwounded one whispers something to his compatriots and turns to follow Fenris and the girl, even as the arrow begins to pass too deep into his throat for him to breathe, to dislodge it again without killing himself. Sebastian chokes, his thoughts wheeling to the Chantry, to the Grand-Cleric, and with some regret, to Hawke-- whom he has failed to protect.

An arrow not of his own make splits one mage's skull, the other suddenly shrieking as lightning spikes through her and her companion. They both stagger stupidly and, free of the magic, Sebastian chokes more emphatically, unable to pull the arrow free and unable to breathe with it placed as it is. The second arrow's head is still only wedged into the roof of his mouth. As he sags against Aveline-- bless her for thinking to get reinforcements-- She shushes him gently, promising that she'd sent one of Lirene's down for Anders and it's okay to pull it out, but it's not okay to choke to death. Everything's getting rather loud, a roar of blood in his ears as the spots in his vision grow from specks to great dancing dots that nearly obscure everything, and he hopes she's right as he takes her half-understood advice.

It's not quite the nastiest thing he's ever done to himself, but it rates high. The arrowhead, made of stone and very unyielding, scrapes his throat raw, its barbs catching on the tissue lining his esophagus, then on the roof of his mouth and his tongue, then on his lower lip before it's finally gone. Sebastian spits blood, feeling it running freely down his throat, and gasps gratefully for air, groaning. He stubbornly whispers, despite the raspy, painful quality of the words telling him he shouldn't. "Hightown. Think-- going for Hawke."

"I know," Aveline promises him with a raised eyebrow, helping him to lean against a wall. "Merrill and Varric are following and Isabela's still there if they make it to the place. Worry about breathing for now, Sebastian."

He nods, and waits. He is glad she waits with him, even though he can feel the tension in her that says she wants to continue. Carver arrives in time to chase after the rest, and when Anders appears, it's simultaneous to Merrill and Varric returning with Fenris's weight balanced between them, the elf presumably unconscious. Looking between them, Anders shrugs and motions for Aveline to help Sebastian to Merrill's home in the Alienage, since that is evidently where everyone else is going.

Breathing wetly, Sebastian goes along without complaint, shaking his head when Anders asks if he minds letting Fenris be healed first.

The adrenaline finally fades, letting him savor the badly torn status of his mouth and throat and regret it utterly. To his embarrassment, he watches with envy as Anders pours healing magic into Fenris's unresisting body, realigning muscles with bones, putting blood where it belongs, allowing bruises and swelling to go down and closing the few wounds the elf had acquired before his capture had been ensured by more magical means.

Merrill, who has been watching it all with a worried look on her face, asks, "Do you think it would be best if I put up some kind of defense here, as well? I mean, unless you think he'll recover quickly. He might recover quickly. I suppose then it wouldn't matter, so much, would it?"

A slight smile quirks Anders's tired mouth, but he doesn't answer except to shrug, turning instead to Sebastian. There's an old rancor there, waiting to be sparked into their usual arguments about Chantry and magic and freedom and all that comes with it. But either Anders is feeling generous, or Sebastian himself understands that antagonizing people when bleeding from the throat is unwise, for they leave those things aside and Anders touches his fingers gingerly to Sebastian's damaged lip, sending a quick tongue of magic into his mouth like a stolen kiss. It tingles and lingers, the magic tasting strangely like fresh rain in the forest, and Sebastian has to cough, once, twice, before he's sure he can speak again.

"Thank you."

"Not a problem," Anders assures him. "It's lucky I wasn't in my back room when you sent for me, Aveline, I don't think the runners know I research back there."

"Call it what you want; I'm glad you made it. Might be good to go check on Hawke and the others, though, make sure there isn't another wave, and catch them up. Should I go, or do you want to have a look?"

There is not much to say between the lot of them right now that isn't just business. Varric is, meantime, having a quiet conversation with Merrill about the wards she proposes, and making her show him how to draw them. Sebastian, for his part, just stares dully at Fenris, wondering why the blood mages had been after him, too. Anders says, as Sebastian is distracted, "I'll go check on them, but Carver and I have never really gotten along. Probably head back through the cellars once I'm sure everyone's all right." He points to Fenris on Merrill's table (not the best solution, but certainly better than laying him out on the floor might have been), lip curling. "He'll wake up soon, but he's still not at his best. Don't let him do anything of his usual caliber where it comes to 'stupid'. "

"Not a problem," Aveline answers, a strange gleam to her eye. Suddenly, Sebastian doesn't suspect he wants to be present for whatever she's thinking about. At least Anders has volunteered to go check on Carver, Isabela and Hawke. Sebastian doubts he'd appreciate such a conversation himself; between his guilt for refusing to assist with Hawke's, er, 'cure', Isabela's usual attentions and Carver's moody disposition, he'd have forgotten some crucial detail, surely.

"Just tell me what I missed." They talk briefly of Aveline's decision to visit Carver and let him know about his brother's current condition in as vague terms as possible, of the blood mages who had evidently followed them there and targeted Fenris and Carver, succeeding in capturing the former to evidently lead them to Hawke's estate so they could get past the magical wards Merrill had put up the previous day. Once or twice, Anders looks surprised-- perhaps as pleased as Sebastian to know that Merrill's demon-magic had, in this case, protected their friend instead of turning on him-- but he doesn't comment overall on the details, simply nodding as he prepares to go.

"You know," Sebastian muses, as the thought occurs to him belatedly, "Isabela will tell Carver everything you were trying to conceal, earlier." The look of mild annoyance on Aveline's face tells him he's late to come to this conclusion, and he holds up his hands in mock-surrender. The air in Merrill's home is quite tense enough without him starting something troublesome by running his mouth. "Which," he says quickly, "Is fine, considering the circumstances."

Anders shakes his head, lifting a hand in farewell to the lot of them, and leaves without another word.

This leaves himself, Aveline, Varric and Merrill, with a still very unconscious Fenris.

Varric says into the growing silence, "So. Which of you is available tonight, anyway? I've got tomorrow morning, I'm not taking both."

Only a few seconds late does Sebastian realize what Varric means, and he groans, dropping his face into his hands. "Maker, you're not serious."

"Oh, I'm quite serious." Standing up, Varric begins pacing, frowning darkly. He takes exactly six steps one way, six back the other. Unwittingly, Sebastian finds himself following the motions, just as Aveline and Merrill do. "Broody here had offered to handle the nights, since they're-- you know-- _involved._ But between the damage he took and the potential that he's these mages' secondary target, I don't like our odds if we send him in to do the deed tonight. Instead of one fearless leader in desperate need of a good--" Varric's grin is steely and hollow, his own distress for Hawke quite obvious, "--handling, we might end up with them both dead. Or thralls, or gone, which is all basically the same thing: bad."

With a heavy sigh, Aveline shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Varric. I can't do that to Donnic, and I can't do it to Hawke. Besides, I'll be overseeing extra patrols tonight if I've my say. The sooner we route these bastards, the less I'll hear about it from the Knight-Commander. I don't want her stepping on my toes, so I've got to act fast."

Nodding, Varric shrugs. "I didn't figure it'd be you. You helped out this morning anyway; I bet it helped Hawke just as much to have a friendly face around." She looks significantly at Fenris, but only nods. "I'd go myself, but like I said-- I'm not taking both. I want to help, but he needs more variety, not less."

"I could go." Fidgeting nervously, Merrill coughs once, tugging at the tip of her left ear. "Or, well. I can after I'm done making the wards for my house. I really don't think it'd be wise to leave Fenris unchecked; as you said, Varric, he might be a target. It'll be strategically safer to keep him here until we're able to say for certain that he's not."

They all three look at _him_ , and Sebastian very quickly refuses. "I'm not going to forswear my vows, and I've already explained why. Surely there's some other way?"

Varric sighs, nonplussed by Sebastian's continued refusal, and he prepares himself for a lengthy debate on the matter. Rarely, if ever, have these people ever shown the tolerance to accept that his way is different from theirs. Though Sebastian regrets their lack of foresight, he refuses to give up his duties to the Chantry, to the Grand-Cleric and to himself for something such as this. Hawke's life will not be lost over his refusal to participate, as they've many volunteers and could easily hire more if it were necessary. Even Hawke had the decency to respect Sebastian's and Aveline's refusals, and didn't seem particularly heartened by the cure. To participate in such a thing seems almost-- monstrous, in a way.

The tiny voice telling him _not as monstrous as the alternative_ is one he does his best to ignore.

But the argument never comes. Instead, Varric throws up his hands. "Fine. But you go watch over him while I contact Blondie to let him know we need his help tonight. Andraste's tits, Choirboy, would it kill you to give a damn about your friends even a little?"

It stings, but Sebastian ignores the barb, knowing it for what it is. "I will gladly watch over him while you do."

With a nod, Aveline crosses the room to settle in Merrill's comfier chair, while Merrill busies herself with preparing the runic ward spells she had been showing Varric before. Together, Sebastian and Varric exit the house and walk in relatively pleasant silence until they reach the odiferous sewer drain that leads down into Darktown as near to Anders's clinic as one can manage. Here, Varric gives Sebastian a shrewd look and holds out his hand.

Puzzled, Sebastian looks down at it. "Yes?"

"Shake on this: If Blondie's already asleep, or swamped with patients dying from a plague and otherwise can't show, you're gonna take care of Hawke." He starts to argue and Varric plows ahead, his tone becoming dangerous. " _Even_ if it means giving him a hand job because that's the least intimate thing you can think to do, Choirboy. I mean it, you sodding prick. If it's Hawke's life or your vows, you'd better pick his life." Again, Sebastian tries to respond, but Varric's dark, cunning eyes glitter coldly and for the first time in his entire life, Sebastian knows what it's like to feel smaller than a dwarf. It is not a good feeling. "If you don't, I will personally see to it that you are defamed, driven from the Chantry and _decapitated._ "

Throat a little dry, Sebastian bends at the waist and takes the offered hand. "If Anders cannot leave, I will do everything in my power to help Hawke."

Varric's grip is strong and sure, and he grins a little, the usual facade of harmless cheer back in place as if it never left. "Good. Now let's get on down to see how Blondie's doing. You can come with and take the cellar back if he says no." Making a mental note to never fool himself into thinking he is capable of outmaneuvering Varric unless he has several thousand warriors to spare and is not in the same city as the dwarf, Sebastian swallows his protest that he was meant to go on ahead to the estate and watch Hawke in the meantime. He has already been bested, and he knows it.

Together, they silently enter the sewers, then Darktown proper, which somehow smells worse. Shafts of fading light slant through the gaps in the cliff-face that is Kirkwall as they pick their way through the refuse and rejected persons who clutter Darktown's streets together, finding their way to the clinic within a half hour without any undue incident. Anders is in midst of healing the third of what appear to be six sick children all belonging to the same dour mother, a woman with lank black hair and the strongest chin Sebastian has ever seen. Her thick accent is Antivan and despite her permanently woeful expression, her obviously genuine gratitude is enough to make Sebastian feel ashamed that he could ever dream of dragging Anders from such work. Before they set foot inside the clinic's open doors, he catches Varric's shoulder with one hand, swallowing his pride.

This is all a very new experience for Sebastian. Usually his pride's the only thing he lets himself run free with. In its wake, something else may yet surface; he tries to hope it won't. "I'll go, Varric."

The smile that graces Varric's lips turns him almost gentle looking, a lion with a friendly face. "Oh, really?"

"Please, don't disturb him. I'll go." Shame, however, is a familiar companion. Sebastian cradles himself in it, in shame at having forced Varric to show him this before he relented, shame in being unwilling to sacrifice his personal satisfaction for his friend's _life_ , and beyond all that, shame at being willing to break his vows if it was convenient for his purpose. Time and time again he had made decisions in high emotion, moments of passion or violence or fear (all remarkably similar emotions, when he thought about it after the fact), to change his previously unshakeable resolve. Now he was meant for the Chantry, now to be Prince, now to serve the Maker, now to serve himself, to serve Starkhaven-- in this case, to serve Hawke. Unlike all those other spur of the moment decisions, however, he's making this one entirely without Elthina's input and in under the space of a day.

It is doubtless the most rash thing he's done since he was given up to the Chantry. Yet he feels more conviction in this decision than any other, and now that he's made it, he doesn't second guess himself.

"All right, Choirboy. Get to it," Varric sighs, acting put-upon. As though he must go about threatening numerous other persons about the city with certain death should they endanger his best friend-- but no, that is in this case probably something specially reserved for Sebastian. Trying not to worry too much about what that means and whether for Varric that is a sign of friendship, Sebastian nods his agreement and turns towards the seemingly-abandoned cellar stairs.

"See you in the morning then, Varric?" He says, glancing over his shoulder with what he hopes is a brave smile. It's strange to admit it to himself, but he's rather afraid to find out what he's capable of, given free reign (and encouragement) to do the very things he's spent most of his life trying to forget he can do.

With a grin, Varric waves. "If you're still in one piece, that is. If you're just a pile of ashes, I'll know how the Maker feels about Chantry vows for sure."

Oddly comforted by the ridiculous image of himself struck down by the Maker's very Hand, Sebastian chuckles as he crawls up the moldering passageway that, eventually, leads up into Hawke's home. He has never actually taken this passage himself, but knows it branches off in some places before reaching the main cellars, with which he is better acquainted. Following instructions he had long since memorized at Hawke's behest in case any of them should ever _need_ the passage to reach him, Sebastian manages to suppress his unruly thoughts until well after he has reached the building proper and passed through two rooms of storage on his way into the servant's quarters.

There, he encounters no one and for a moment worries. But no, Bodahn and Sandal are with the mistress of the house, as is the strange elf girl, Orana: some other estate, safe from blood mages and, more immediately, from being aware of their young master's forced debauchery with all of his friends. It is a sobering thought, and one Sebastian finds lingering. As a youth, he'd cared nothing for gossip or scorn, valuing his nobility far less than he did the concept of freedom, of love, of traveling the world and knowing it as only a peasant could. Had someone wearing his face walked in and asked to take his place, he's no doubt he'd have taken the offer and gone away gladly. Now, though; now he sees the importance of nobility and the power that is granted those of noble birth. The value of being able to make a difference with much less effort than is required of people like Aveline, or Fenris or Anders.

But maybe, he thinks humbly, they are making a greater difference than he has ever acknowledged. Aveline is Captain of the Guard and nothing more, yes, but that affects all citizens of Kirkwall, and she makes their lives safer. No small feat. Fenris is only an escaped slave, largely illiterate (and what little he knows, he owes Hawke in its entirety), but he has killed more slavers in his life than any law passed has ever seen fit to do, inadvertently freeing many slaves along the way whose lives would have been the very misery he so desperately seeks to evade now. Anders may not have the freedom of movement a Circle mage does, may be killed or made Tranquil at any time because of his own foolish choices in the past, but thanks to those choices the people of Darktown and Lowtown live longer, learn to hope, and even dare to dream of a future where their lot might be made better. What has Sebastian done, in the last ten years?

He bitterly denies himself his answer, as he knows it well enough already. There are times when the irritated taunting of Hawke's companions hits much closer to home than Sebastian likes to admit.

Stepping out of the kitchen (through which he realizes he has passed without noticing where his feet took him), Sebastian comes upon Isabela, who is waiting alone in the dining hall. She looks up from the half-finished glass of water she was drinking and smirks to see him, sizing up his posture, his expression and the fact that he has arrived at all in instants.

"Good thing you came in the back," she says playfully, batting her eyelashes. "Getting warmed up for later tonight, are we, princeling?"

Sebastian sighs heavily, giving her a look of frustration for her troubles. "You know of what happened to Fenris, do you not?"

"Oh, I do." Now something akin to worry flashes over that infuriating woman's voice, and Sebastian becomes aware of the smell of the wine she _didn't_ pour, which sits half-drunk in a glass on the dining table, clearly left in haste. "Carver was upset to have to fight him, to be sure. I knocked him out to try to spare him a little of the pain, but who knows when our friends will make their next move?"

He nods wordlessly, moving to join her at the table. Instead of continuing that thread of conversation, he finds himself asking tightly, "Where is Hawke?"

"Sleeping by the fireplace," Isabela drawls, "as he's been doing off and on all day. I kept him well-fed and somewhat clean, poor thing, but I couldn't keep him from getting worn out." The sparkle in her eye says there are many stories she'd like to tell Sebastian, in lurid detail, come some future time when they are alone, life isn't serious, and she wants to see him squirm with discomfort. Instead of following through on that, however, some seriousness comes over her, and she tells him plainly, "Whatever you do, be gentle with him, Sebastian. I know you've had enough experience to know what you're doing...?" She lets her tone slide up to a questioning pitch, though she phrased it as a statement, and he nods. Yes: he'd slept with men, before, as well. This seems to please her, and the seriousness is gone, replaced by boisterous encouragement that Sebastian oddly feels grateful for. "And he'll be putty in your hands as long as you keep that in mind. Well."

"Well," he agrees.

She drains the rest of the water from her glass in a hungry gulp and smacks her lips. "Yes. I've been here all day and I'm painfully sober to make certain I don't do anything untoward. I'm going to go get so hammered Varric will write a song about it. You have fun, Choirboy."

Numbly, he tells her, "I'll try." Though she doesn't say why, she takes the back entrance as well, heading down into the very cellars from which Sebastian has just emerged. He listens to the soft sound of her booted feet on the stone floor until it recedes into near silence. When she is gone, he's left with the smell of Carver's abandoned wine, the distant sound of the fire popping, and his thoughts.

 _Andraste guide me,_ he tells himself fervently. _And do not abandon me. I do what I must for my friend; nothing more, nothing less._

Slowly, Sebastian rises from his chair, crossing the dining hall to the front room, where Hawke is sitting in his large, not-quite-opulent chair before the fire, drowsing lightly. He has a weary look to him that says no amount of sleep is enough, and even in sleep his hands grip the armrests in response to the constant pain he feels. The spell has not changed Hawke's appearance significantly, save to leave him covered in a sheen of sweat. The room smells of the fire, smoky, like the pine woods of Starkhaven, and just faintly of Hawke himself, as Sebastian draws near.

Beneath the blanket Isabela had tucked him into, Hawke is naked, and his movements as he dreams have knocked the cover away, baring him to the world.

Sebastian has never really _looked_ before, but he can't help it, now.

Muscles a mage doesn't usually need or bother with are well-defined on Hawke's body. His chest is smooth and strong, peppered only lightly with hair; his arms look fully capable of wielding a weapon if he were required to try, his stomach just a shade too shallow, as though he doesn't quite eat enough to sustain himself. He is the perfection of a man's body sculpted from flesh itself, and well-endowed, Sebastian notes with some pleasure.

Catching himself, Sebastian groans, muffling the sound with his hand, mouthing the words of his morning prayers as he tries to beat back the thoughts that have begun to flower in his mind. Hawke _is_ well-endowed, and that _does_ please Sebastian, and he can imagine very easily what he would like to do with such a man, in such a position. While sleeping, Hawke's face is slack and innocent, only his brow belying his pain. He stirs, and when he does his left arm curls along his belly, trying to offer warmth lost when the blanket slipped away. He shifts, pressing his face deeper into the back of the chair with a soft moan. His lips are so full and soft, and Sebastian can't help thinking that they would look so much better shining with drool, swollen from sucking, parted, panting.

"Hawke," he says, either to steady himself or to warn the other man that he _must be stopped_ before he ravages his best friend and ruins both of their lives. Hawke will not want anything to do with Sebastian when the night is done: even were it not shameful, Hawke has never encouraged Sebastian to break his vows, nor shown the slightest sign of interest. Hawke is in love with Fenris. When he realizes what has been done, he will only be grateful for his life. The lasting shame--

But Hawke's eyes flutter open, and his pupils are dilated so wide his irises are almost lost in them. He catches his breath in a heady sigh, turning immediately to Sebastian, crawling down off of the chair. "Yes, ser. Where is my mistress?"

Backing away one step, Sebastian finds himself wondering why his face is so hot, in between fearful thoughts that it is too late already and Hawke has been made into a mindless thrall, the man that they all care for lost to wicked magics. For every step Sebastian backs away, Hawke crawls forward another, until Sebastian's back hits the writing desk that Hawke keeps here for correspondence, in case he does not feel like bringing every letter or book up to his room. Hawke advances the rest of the way, pressing his face into Sebastian's crotch with a crooning sound that crawls up and down Sebastian's spine far, far too pleasantly.

"Mistress was here all day," Hawke breathes, reaching up to grab Sebastian's hips, his face open in exultant, erotic supplication. Trying not to make any sudden moves, Sebastian swallows until he thinks he might be able to speak. "Surely you know where mistress is, ser?"

"You have no mistress, Hawke," Sebastian promises quietly. "Nor master. It's the magic speaking."

Blinking slowly, Hawke shakes his head, his overwhelming confidence fading even as his eyes slowly begin to focus, returning to normal. In spite of himself, Sebastian lets out a sigh of relief.

"Thank the Maker. I was afraid you were too far-gone." Now he reaches down, cupping Hawke's cheek, and helps Hawke to stand, though the man is shaky and falls into Sebastian's arms when he finally makes it to his feet.

It's not exactly that Sebastian has any ideas, really, but he doesn't like the desk biting into his back. So slowly, he shifts, brushing aside papers and writing quills and bottles of ink with one shoulder, lying back on the desk with Hawke atop him. It takes him several seconds to realize he's purring at the weight atop him, remembering, again, things he'd never thought to relive. Hawke simply nuzzles his throat, making soft, pleased noises even at this small contact. The clarity that had come over Hawke's senses is short-lived, Sebastian realizes, and fades away almost instantly when Sebastian does not immediately act. The nuzzling becomes kisses, over his throat, his cheek, his jawline, and Sebastian kisses back, catching Hawke's mouth suddenly, forcefully, and shoving his tongue deep inside.

This seems to knock Hawke for a loop. He opens his mouth wide and doesn't fight for dominance even a little, letting Sebastian plunder him without mercy.

Pressing the advantage, Sebastian continues kissing Hawke, even as he deftly begins unbuckling and unfastening his armor. He pushes Hawke up off of him, rises, and crouches, slipping an arm under Hawke's legs before he can realize what Sebastian is doing. When he stands, it is with Hawke cradled to his chest, well in range to kiss again. Sebastian ascends the stairs doing just that, unbothered by Hawke's relatively light weight in his arms, claiming Hawke's mouth so thoroughly that the impressive cock Sebastian was admiring before is already hard by the time they reach Hawke's bedroom.

Sebastian tosses Hawke into the bed, following, and swipes a bottle of the healing salve left out on Hawke's bedroom desk for use.

Here he hesitates as, again, he wonders whether what he's doing is truly right. But when he considers it, he knows it isn't. Hawke has no choice, and abusing that lack of sense of self is no better than what the blood mages seek to do. Perhaps the others can bring themselves to do such things to Hawke, but Sebastian hasn't the heart for it. Not when the poor man is writhing in his own bed, clearly in pain, moaning for help.

Help?

"Hawke?" Sebastian asks quickly, setting the healing salve on the ground and dropping to his knees beside the bed carefully, reaching out to clasp one of Hawke's hands. "Are you all right? I'm here. I'll help. What do you need?" When Hawke squeezes his hand, his heart leaps. It's a good sign of awareness, but he'd like more. Without consent, he can't conscionably do anything at all. But no words come, and Hawke writhes and moans again, and Sebastian sighs, worry creasing his brow. "I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong, Hawke."

It is, perhaps, foolish to chastise someone so far-gone and in such peril, but an answer slips from Hawke's mouth, bubbling free of his deeply mired mind. "Please, do it. Can't think like this. Can't..."

He knows exactly what Hawke means when he says 'it'.

Sebastian closes his eyes, wincing at the necessity, hating it, unwilling to deny it any longer. "All right," he says softly, just for Hawke, putting his lips to Hawke's ear. "I'll do it."

He has no idea what Hawke and Fenris's relationship is like, nor what Isabela did during the day, but he knows what _he_ likes and can't stop thinking about it, now that he's started, now that he's this close and Hawke is right there, hard, aching, needing.

Needing like Sebastian needs. Begging without words. "Okay," Sebastian breathes, his words a gentle breeze on Hawke's sweaty neck as he helps shift Hawke, maneuvering him over to the edge of the bed, helping him sit up, positioning his hands in Sebastian's hair. "Hold on," he commands softly. "Hold on to me." The fingers in his hair tighten, Hawke's expression empty of understanding. That's fine. That doesn't matter. His dick seems to have an idea, where it's pressed against his belly, and Sebastian licks his lips in anticipation.

Then the head of Hawke's cock, getting a feel for the thickness of it. It's impressive, though not of such a size that one might feel intimidated, he amends hastily, for he's seen his share of those, too, and never wanted to put his mouth anywhere near them. Hawke, though, Hawke is just a little longer than the largest Sebastian had ever taken in his youth, though not as thick as the thickest. Sebastian shudders, gripping Hawke's hips to steady himself, center his thoughts, and try to take as little pleasure as possible in what is a necessary, but pleasurable act. Kissing the tip again, he opens his mouth as wide as he must to suck in just the head and does, tasting the slightly salty promise of semen, the leftover sweat, and the soft, velvet taste of skin. Skin is underrated, as he had often said in his wilder days: Sebastian adores skin, loves to lick and suck and taste skin. This particular delicacy, denied him so many years, is headier than the strongest wine and just as intoxicating.

Feeling his own face flushed with anticipation, Sebastian begins to _move_ , working his tongue along the underside as he slowly descends, pausing every now and then to push back up, breathe in and suck on the tip, listening with unrestrained adulation to Hawke's answering whimpers of encouragement. At first, he has trouble convincing his throat that this isn't like the arrow, earlier, that when he goes down beyond the depth of his mouth, he will not choke, only be temporarily denied air. It is harder than he remembered to suppress his urge to gag when he goes too far, too fast, at first; but he remembers these things more readily the more he presses on. On the upstroke he sucks in air, drags his teeth lightly along the foreskin, teasing beneath it with his tongue. As he goes down, he sucks, not minding the saliva that begins pooling beneath him, not minding the absolutely indecent, sucking sounds he makes, not caring if he looks like an idiot or a whore or anything but someone who is sucking another man's cock, and enjoying it. His lips begin to numb as he keeps at it, pushing all the way down to take the full length in, the tip pressed hard against the back of his throat while Hawke whispers his name like a prayer.

"Sebastian," he isn't imagining it, as he comes up for air, grips Hawke's erection with one hand, squeezes his buttocks with the other, digging fingers in to make Hawke yelp, stroking, sucking, licking. He finds a vein along the underside of Hawke's absolutely delicious prick and kisses it, sucks it, licks it until Hawke repeats his name again in a high-pitched whine. "Sebastian!"

"Nnn?" He purrs, looking up into Hawke's eyes to find the most actually-Hawke expression he has yet seen on the man today. Sebastian makes certain not to quite remove his lips from the tip of Hawke's cock, tongue flicking out languidly to catch precome as it dribbles, stroking him even while he tries to speak. It seems to Sebastian that Hawke has a lot of difficulty with that. Speaking while being sucked, that is. "What is it, Master Hawke?" he prompts, unconsciously using the same title he's bestowed (perhaps not quite formally, but always with sincerity) on the man since their first meeting.

The shudder that runs through Hawke at the word is absolutely unrelated to anything Sebastian's mouth is doing otherwise, as he grins and licks his drool-covered lips. "Ah--"

"Oh, I _see,_ " Sebastian laughs, but doesn't press, going down again all the way to the base, crushing his throat full of Hawke and groaning as earnestly as he can, feeling Hawke's fingers grip tightly in his hair, swallowing against the thickness in his throat and riding it out as Hawke suddenly takes control. Those hands, previously so docile, pull him up and push him down in shallow thrusts that linger nearer to the tip (where he can breathe, and is grateful enough for it), forcing him to obey the will of another so simply that he feels a rush of pure desire through himself, pooling in his own, neglected groin. He continues to neglect, instead savoring Hawke's forceful hands, sucking as obediently as he can on Hawke's prick until with a shove of his hips and a shout, Hawke pushes in to the hilt once more, burying himself in Sebastian's throat and coming so hard that he forgets, at first, to let go.

Still needing to breathe, Sebastian gently detaches Hawke's fingers from his now thoroughly mussed hair, pulling back and catching a last droplet or two of semen on his tongue, which he savors with a lecherous grin. He is petting the insides of Hawke's thighs when he realizes he is still fully dressed, though buckles have been unbuckled and his armor is loose, ready to be slipped out of so he might remove his clothes beneath and do as he may.

Sebastian smiles up at Hawke with a fierce lust in his heart, promising silently that this will be a night of such pleasure even the pain of the blood magic cannot stop Hawke from enjoying himself. "Master Hawke," he breathes again, adopting a soft, pleading tone neither too whiny nor too confident. "Please, won't you let me take you, ser?"

Though there is hesitance in Hawke's expression, he nods slowly, desire smoldering in his eyes.

Grabbing the last of the catches, Sebastian divests himself of the sum total of his clothing, and sets about ravishing Hawke as many times and as creatively as he can for the rest of the night.


	5. Chapter 5

There are few things finer in life than the vintage known as 'told you so', and Varric is well aware of it. The trouble with being consistently right, however, is bragging about it, pointing it out, being smug. All that leads to hard feelings between a man and his friends, so it's best not to advertise one's tendency to be insufferably correct all the time in order to keep tempers calm.

This is why, as he walks up the steps to Hightown and enters the Hawke estate, he is only smiling his usual wry smile as he knocks on the door.

He is but a mortal dwarf, though, so when Prince Stick In the Mud answers disheveled, sweat-soaked, haphazardly dressed and sporting a couple of telling bite marks on his jaw and throat, Varric smirks. Whatever did the trick and got ol' boring-britches to cut loose, he doesn't care. He's glad for Hawke's sake, maybe even Sebastian's, and bemused for his own. Messere Vael is steady on his feet as he lets Varric in, even friendly, and though he seems to be wrought with enough shame to be convincing when he returns to the Chantry, he has a very telling cast of sublime bliss that suggests he doesn't really regret what he's done.

"Took my warning to heart, I see," Varric begins, all polite accord and curious prying, as Sebastian notices that his belt is coming open again and rebuckles it, cinching his armor more tightly about his waist with a wry chuckle. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Mn? Hm." Squinting in thought, Sebastian sighs, leans against the nearest doorframe, purses his lips. "No, 'bad' isn't how I'd describe it."

Varric senses A Story. The kind that makes him considerable coin around town. "Oh?"

With a smile so very charming even Varric, who doesn't particularly _like_ Sebastian, feels briefly aflutter, the question is neatly brushed aside. "How are the others? How is Fenris?"

"It's funny you should ask." The question reminds him that he's got a full report to deliver and a sick (well, sort of) friend to take care of upstairs. "He's still asleep. Daisy's got an eye on him though and Aveline's going to take the next watch when it's Daisy's turn to pay Hawke a house call." Distractedly, Sebastian runs a hand through his hair in a futile effort to un-muss it, and Varric can't help thinking it's a shame he doesn't go around town looking like this. Boring, shiny Choirboy is no match for smirking, self-satisfied Choirboy. Hah. He makes a mental note to try writing that unlikely pair up for next week. Isabela will get a kick out of it.

Nodding thoughtfully, Sebastian schools his expression into one of contrition, though his eyes still dance merrily and he can't seem to help glancing over his shoulder in the direction of Hawke's bedroom. There is a decidedly predatory cast to his face when he does that makes him almost frightening to behold. "Sounds as though it's all covered. I'm off, then, and Hawke's in his room. I'll see you later, Varric."

"Right, later."

No matter how he looks at it, Varric's depressed this isn't the way Sebastian always acts. He savors the moment, waving as they part. He doesn't doubt ol' faithful will be back to bore the lot of them to tears when this all blows over. Some might call Varric a pessimist, but he just knows the Grand-Cleric that well. She's quiet, but pushy. And her relationship with dear old prince Vael is hardly healthy.

Now that he's alone, however, Varric quickly locks the door behind Sebastian and bustles his way through the manor. The place is in shambles without Bodahn and Orana about to keep it spotless, without Leandra Hawke to keep the fire stoked and the dust from settling. Indeed, the fire has burned out hours ago. One of Hawke's bed sheets is draped on his favorite chair, Hawke's writing desk is in disarray and several glasses of wine are strewn about the room in unlikely places, in varying states of emptiness.

Bemused, Varric follows this trail upstairs, where he discovers a piece of rope left partially tied to the banister and several empty bottles of healing salve. Fortuitously, Varric has brought more, but he's fascinated to find the ties of one of Hawke's robes attached securely to the family crest hung on the wall beside his bedroom, very tellingly hanging in two wrist-sized loops. What really takes the cake, though, is Hawke's bedroom.

It smells so strongly of sex that Varric almost misses the faint undertones of alcohol. Half-melted candles sit, recently extinguished, on the floor and Hawke's writing table; Hawke's bed is a fortress of sweaty sheets, and Hawke himself is sprawled naked atop them, half of the Chant of Light inscribed upon his back in ink, blindfolded, his wrists slightly red, drooling, debauched, sweaty, hair sticking up at odd angles, and skin dotted in places with candle wax. He is gasping for breath, rock hard, and Varric realizes belatedly that he is kneeling with his legs spread because his knees have been bound to one of his many staves, keeping them apart and his admittedly admirable ass on display. Said ass is currently a bit pink in vague imprints of a hand on the left cheek.

"Wow," Varric says, because no matter what he'd been imagining, he is devastated to know that what actually happened was apparently even better. "You all right there, Hawke? Need anything?"

Hawke, still trying to grind his hips into friction that isn't there, twitches and turns his head blindly in Varric's general direction, still panting. "That," he shudders, "Boundless," and moans, " _Prince_."

It's an accusation, but also exultation. Hawke gasps, sounding equal parts flustered, overwhelmed, and dangerously adoring. Varric wonders idly if Hawke will share the details with him. He's incredibly, indecently curious, now. But later, later. For now it looks like cleanup would be the best place to start. Call Sebastian whatever he might, there was no denying the Prince lacked a certain set of personal values regarding cleanliness and orderly conduct unless someone was leading him by the hand. He knew Isabela was considerably more cautious about cleaning up after herself, anyway, so this couldn't have been _her_ mess.

"Is he--?" Hawke's blindfolded head jerks around to the side and back again, trying to listen for the sound of Sebastian's approach, tension making him tremble. He licks his lips, and doesn't seem especially troubled by the idea that someone might take advantage of that ass he's wriggling in the air as he listens for movement.

"Nah, I think you've had quite enough of him for one night." Dawn has progressed into the soft, early morning light that usually greets Varric's day and he busies himself with first untying Hawke, then removing the blindfold, then helping Hawke to get to his feet all a-wobble. "come on, you need a soak. Probably a cold one."

Unsteadily, Hawke follows Varric's lead, blissfully unaware of the various bite marks and other telling bruises that share the story of his passionate night with Prince Vael. Hawke's room hasn't windows, but Varric leaves the door open as they pass through it, making plans to change the sheets once he's got Hawke situated with some breakfast.

The shock of the cool bathing room tiles on his feet seems to stir Hawke's awareness, for he looks down at them and does not resist when Varric pulls him over to the washing bench and makes him sit. The Amell family of the distant past evidently had great taste for wearing their dirt proudly, for the bathing chamber is not nearly so luxurious as most one might find in Hightown. Practical and small enough that only two or three humans could ever comfortably use it at the same time, it lacks the excessive facilities and enchantments so common among most nobility.

Suits Hawke. Still has running water, though usually Hawke himself maintenances the piping system that supplies the stuff if anything breaks. Varric goes about the business of filling the tub with water, letting it dribble out cold. Next, he sorts through the scented soaps Leandra Hawke has stocked the room with, choosing one that seems strong but unlikely to leave Hawke perfumed. Given the time it'll take him to scrub Hawke down, he gauges he can leave the tub as it is and it won't overflow.

Armed with his chosen soap and a small wet washing cloth, he returns to Hawke's side. With a grin, he suds up the cloth and begins attacking the writing on Hawke's back.

"So, you've been indisposed and I want to catch you up. Pay attention." As Varric scrubs away the ink staining Hawke's skin, brushing off the dried bits of candle wax, he notes the sudden stiffness of Hawke's posture and wonders how much of that is an actual choice, how much the compulsion of that damn demon blood. "Aveline let Junior know about the blood mages, but they made an attack while she was in the middle of it. That's why Choirboy filled in for broody last night, in case you were wondering. They tried to use him to get past the defenses we have up around the house to protect you. Not sure if he's a secondary target for them."

Hawke nods slowly, seeming to settle into an exhausted daze. The touch of the cloth has a calming effect on him, easing away the anxiously excited sexual energy that had been lingering about him. "Is Fenris okay?" he asks, sounding distantly worried.

"Yeah." Varric would pat his shoulder, but he's currently in process of scrubbing off a particularly stubborn passage about Andraste's grace, and Hawke is rubbing into that like a happy dog, sighing at the pressure of the washcloth against his skin, eyes half-lid. Bit weird, but Varric's seen weirder. He continues. "Anyway, given what happened, Daisy spent most of the night warding her house so we could keep Broody there for observation. Blondie's been hitting the books, meantime, and I asked around town. Trying to track down this 'Hanora' person who originally sent you the letter. Remember that?"

"Mm." Hawke's fingers twitch, but he doesn't seem to stir, otherwise. He's nearly comatose, simple exhaustion making him extraordinarily incoherent; Varric is duly impressed at Sebastian's vigor, not to mention what appears to be the most inventive night of fucking he's ever seen. "In the cave, they didn't seem to know who she was. Might be unrelated."

With a scoffing snort, Varric moves to Hawke's chest, soaping it up just as relentlessly while scrubbing. "If that's all unrelated, my hair is _green._ "

"You're right, it still looks blond to me," Hawke sighs amiably, arcing into the touch of the washcloth in a manner that might be more distracting if Varric were anyone else. Being who he is, he rolls his eyes and continues, unfazed. All this will make excellent story fodder when he's detailing Duke Dashing's escapades in the lonely nobleman's house next week.

Heh. Duke Dashing. Isabela will _love_ that.

"Anyway, your Hanora's never been seen, but she's left clues all over town for her potential clients to follow. Word on the street is, you find Hanora, she can give you anything you want for the right price." Just a little, Varric starts to hear _moans_ and sighs and lets himself appreciate that they're coming from Hawke. That he is the one doing this for Hawke, and Hawke likes it.

"Varric," and well, Hawke does like it, at least superficially, because even with Varric just scrubbing him clean he's staying hard as he was when Varric found him in the bed. It seems as though this brings him more pain than it does pleasure, however, and Varric makes a mental note to force a couple of stamina and healing draughts down his fearless hero's throat once they're done in here. Constantly making with the sexy business isn't exactly ideal even for someone who's got the experience to weather it with. One can only imagine what it's like for Hawke, who was confessedly virginal when this began, or just shy of it. "A-are you saying that someone is trying to _buy me_?"

With a grunt and a matter-of-fact look, Varric nods. "Yup. One newly-famous noble, wrapped in a bow and ready to serve your new master's every whim. Guess they hadn't heard you never travel alone."

"Or they thought it would make a nice challenge." Even with this grave knowledge, Hawke can't seem to think straight. His eyes close slowly in appreciation of the attention as Varric rubs the washcloth lower, smoothing along the flat planes of his stomach, over his thigh down to his calves, grinding grit and sweat off of him as Varric bends a knee and begins thoroughly cleaning Hawke's right foot.

"Once I had a likely suspect I started testing the waters, trying to figure out where Hanora and her associates do business by sending a couple of my agents to inquire about making a purchase." That makes him grin fondly, and Hawke asks with a chuckle,

"What were they pretending to buy?"

"I took a page out of Blondie's book and asked for the Arishok's head on a pike. Got their attention pretty fast, though my agent was assured 'anything' didn't quite extend to 'God-kings', or whatever that guy is."

They both sigh, though Hawke is smiling, ruefully. "Well, you tried. That's more than Dumar or Elthina can claim."

"Too true." As he scrubs dirty soles and mud-specked toenails, Varric concentrates not on Hawke's feet or the way Hawke's breath hitches on some ignited desire but his own hands. Just his hands, the soapy washcloth, and keeping it sudsy enough to do its job. He becomes thoroughly invested in sudsiness. This is how Varric Tethras deals with repressed desire: redirects it to a better use unless it's the sort of desire one won't regret later.

He's pretty good at it by now. This is still easier than the Deep Roads, when he wanted really badly to kill his brother and had been denied an equitable opportunity by fate and thousands of tons of stone separating them.

That-- hadn't been pretty. He pushes his thoughts back to his report. "As it turns out they're a group from Darktown, and they've got a whole series of catacombs they use that nobody ever touches without being invited. I'd heard it was filled with chokedamp, for example; would never have thought to look without prompting. They're very private about their work, claim they're very professional." Acknowledging the strengths of his foes does not put Varric in a better mood, and he carefully cleans between Hawke's toes, soaping them gently, holding on tight when Hawke's reaction is slightly ticklish. "The group that was sent for you doesn't quite match up with their modus operandi, though, so it's possible there's more to it."

Sniggering meekly, Hawke wriggles, trying to pull his feet free. "Maker's breath, Varric, stop before I kick you in the face by accident."

"You won't kick me in the face," Varric intones calmly, though he immediately regrets it because he sees the way those words constrict some invisible second skin about Hawke, jerking him into compliance. "...well, I have faith you won't, anyway," he finishes lightly. "I can't imagine a group as untested as our friends in the cave being assigned to any kidnapping case, though. If it were my business, anyway."

A wan smile curls Hawke's lips. "I know. You run a tight ship, if that metaphor isn't exclusive to Isabela."

"Damn right I do," Varric grouses, moving to Hawke's other leg and repeating the process from the start. This time there is much less fidgeting, and he's sure it's the magic holding Hawke in place. Wincing in sympathy, Varric tries to make it fast. "I don't know how much credit can actually be given to this Hanora group. It might be they seem professional now because they've got me by the balls. Later I'll notice how lousy their game is and realize they were just cheating."

"You think so?"

"Hey, these guys were depending on quite a few 'what if's if their plan was to capture you with _those_ idiots. That's never a sign of good planning." Thinking back on it, Varric is mostly just embarrassed at their _own_ failure in that cave. Too bad they hadn't known in advance about that esoteric beastie. "My gut says they're not all they've cracked up to be."

Hawke's expression is hopeful, but a little reserved, and Varric pats his knee gently.

"I think we're gonna be fine." This is not entirely true, but for Hawke's sake, Varric wants to sound positive. He is nursing the suspicion that there are at least two, if not possibly three, groups of blood mages right here in town all fighting over Hawke. They could potentially wipe each other out with infighting, but they might also ally if they aren't actually all the same group in the first place. It looks bleak, from where Varric is kneeling, with Hawke tired unto death and still driven by the magic eating him up from the inside more than he is by his own mind.

Case in point: He swipes the washcloth once across Hawke's groin for posterity, watching his face. Hawke's hips jolt forward, his mouth opening in a soundless cry before he can bite it back. He's flushed through, thoroughly debauched, hard and panting for more, and looks utterly dejected.

Fuck those guys. Varric's going to see to it they're all taken care of, regardless of which group they belonged to. He doesn't like this business of having to force sex on his friend. And there's clearly something _else_ going on on top of it all, for Hawke to look so vulnerable beneath that layer of magically induced lust. "You okay?"

Hawke shakes his head.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Yes," but Hawke's hand fumbles for one of Varric's, clasping it gratefully when he finds it and uses the leverage to slowly stand. "In the tub."

Said tub is now full of cool water, brisk enough to be pleasant on Hawke's fevered skin without giving him a chill. They make their way over carefully, Varric not wanting Hawke to slip on the tile floor. Hawke sinks down into the basin with a relieved sigh all the way up to his chin and leans back, as if he might sleep there. Varric contemplates just letting him, but he has a job to do and he's not going to shirk on it. He turns off the faucet so the tub doesn't start running over. "Okay, Hawke. Talk to me. You look-- unhappy."

There is a very quiet hollowness to the voice that answers. Old hurt, but some of it is fresher than the rest. "It's Fenris," Hawke murmurs, voice soft with pain. In spite of himself, Varric takes one of Hawke's hands, patting it gently. "He- he left, again. Before I woke up, yesterday."

Of all their companions, only Varric, Hawke and Fenris himself know the details of the night when Hawke first made love. Varric knows because Hawke spent the next day in Varric's personal suite and a goodly number of cups, asking hollowly if there was simply something wrong with him, blaming himself, too sore to sit, too drunk to pace, too miserable to sober up. While he likes the elf all right, Varric had not been a fan of his on _that_ day, because while Hawke is blessedly not too loud or even all that melodramatic, he is terribly emotionally fragile.

What makes it hard is knowing them both. Fenris isn't exactly the most stable person Varric knows either, and based on their discussion that day, Varric is sure the problem lies as much with Fenris's fears as Hawke's. It had been all he could do to convince a very drunk and affectionate Hawke that he had done nothing wrong, and Fenris would surely come back once he had worked out whatever had frightened him off.

To hear that there has been a repeat of the very thing Hawke now fears breaks some part of Varric that was holding back his anger. He wants, in a rush, to go find and kill these bastard bloodmages, as slowly and painfully as possible. Hawke has already suffered quite enough, hasn't he? He doesn't need their damned help.

But Varric doesn't voice any of that, lest he make Hawke feel worse. Instead, he pats Hawke's head gently, scratching his scalp with stubby fingers, not quite dipping them in the chilly water. "Didn't say anything?"

Hawke doesn't smile, this time, though he still turns into the physical contact. His voice is rough with unshed tears, and Varric's proud of him, at least, for being willing to talk sober. Last time it'd taken a great deal of beer and throwing up before Hawke had felt comfortable enough to give up the ghost.

Maybe this means Hawke is starting to trust him a little more. Varric is determined not to waste that.

"No. When I woke up, I was alone." Hawke closes his eyes, and sinks under the water a moment. When he surfaces, he rubs at his face. "Maker, this is the clearest my head's been since the caves. Cold water. I wonder if an ice spell would help, too?"

Varric shrugs, never the expert on magic or magic related things and certainly not about to disagree if something is making Hawke feel more aware. "You want to try it?"

"Oh, no no." Hawke laughs, scratching a hand through his hair with a pleased sigh. "I don't know for sure but I feel like I might be more vulnerable if I cast, so I've been trying to avoid it."

"Makes sense."

"But I'll ask Merrill or Anders, later," Hawke yawns, sinking deeper into the tub with a groan of mild discomfort.

Seeing his opportunity, Varric inquires sweetly, "So I take it your night with the Prince was a royal affair?"

" _Varric._ " But it does the trick: Hawke starts laughing, and in those moments he forgets to be uncomfortable about how he's naked in front of Varric, how he's been little more coherent than an animal, desperate to be fucked and used and commanded for the last few days. He forgets about Fenris, and how Fenris left him a second time. He just laughs.

Unrepentant, Varric grins. "I'm dying to know. Well, not literally dying, but I'm pressingly curious. What'd he do to you?"

With a light chuckle, Hawke shakes his head. "What _didn't_ he do? I'm sore and exhausted and I think I'd be happy to never, ever have sex again because I've seen it all. But it was-- nice, too." He seems a little surprised by that. "Gentle, I guess. It was strange. I've never had gentle before this."

Brows furrowing, Varric wonders if he ought to be hearing this.

Very softly, almost to himself, Hawke says, "I'm not sure whether I like it better, though."

So he decides to joke and tease, to try and work some details from Hawke's perspective free. "I dunno, Hawke. Your ass is red as a lobster from being spanked and you were covered in candle wax. That wasn't rough enough for you?"

"He didn't spank hard enough," Hawke agrees in a petulant mutter. He then seems to realize what he's said and sinks down again, this time in a futile attempt to conceal his embarrassment. Varric is still laughing when he resurfaces, spluttering. "Quiet, you! You're going to write another of your books about it, I'd wager. What'll our latest installment of shame be called?"

"You gonna read it this time?"

Hawke's telltale blush is oddly good on him. Suits him. "Maybe."

" _A Gift for the Viscount._ It'll be a detective story about how the Viscount receives a licentiously submissive apostate from a mysterious benefactor," Varric grins, wriggling his fingers for dramatic emphasis. Only seconds late does Varric note that he ought to have ducked that splash, and then he's pinning Hawke beneath the water with a throaty chuckle, no concern for his duster as the wiry mage squirms and struggles, splashing him again.

The fight ends when they're both out of breath and sprawled more out of the tub than in, Hawke panting and Varric still snickering as he squeezes some of the wet futilely from his coat. He'll have to rekindle the fire to dry it all.

"Is that what I am, Varric?" Hawke asks, apropos of nothing, and without context he only squints at the naked shoulder beside him that is obscuring his view of Hawke's face. "Submissive?"

"Let's find out," Varric purrs, still grinning slightly. "Strip me of these soaking wet clothes, mage, and dry me with your finest towel."

He'd meant it as a joke, but the words seize Hawke's body as surely as a bolt of lightning. In an instant he's crawling to Varric's side, doing exactly as told. He hangs Varric's clothes out on the banister, returning with a soft towel and drying Varric, who watches it all and tries to imagine Hawke willingly behaving this way.

"I don't know about normally, Hawke, but you're pretty out of it now. Come on. Let's get you dried up and I'll make you some food." He searches through his sodden pockets for the healing potions and stamina draughts he brought, offering one of each to Hawke before they both traipse downstairs to the kitchen. The healing potion seems to do wonders for the hard-on Hawke can't seem to evade, while the stamina draught wakes him up as even a good hearty Ferelden mush-meal wouldn't have done.

They eat sandwiches, though Varric's no chef at heart, because Varric doesn't much care for Hawke's cooking.

And then they're sitting there, naked, in the dining hall.

And Hawke isn't so much sitting as he is shifting uncomfortably, still mostly in possession of his higher thought processes but just-- incapable of sitting still. He licks his lips, staring at where his hands are braced on the table, and seems to forget, for a moment, that Varric is there.

So Varric starts talking. "You'd make a pretty gift, though, you know. No scars to speak of on that golden skin of yours. Just smooth, taut muscle underneath, begging to be shown around town."

Eyes narrowing, Hawke glances at Varric questioningly, opening his mouth to interrupt.

"Don't talk," he hastily adds, standing from his seat and slowly circling Hawke. "Keep your hands on the table, and your feet braced against the legs of the chair." Shifting position subtly, Hawke watches Varric as he paces, turning this way and that to try to keep Varric always in sight.

He thinks to himself, _can't have that!_ , and adds, tracing a finger along the outside of Hawke's right thigh:

"You can't sit forward or move in the chair. It's slightly uncomfortable, but your body relaxes into it after a while. You can feel the rope around your chest, silk rope, soft on your skin. Same stuff binding your legs and wrists. Same stuff they used to bring you here." Now, as Varric steps behind him, Hawke does not turn. The design of the dining hall chairs is such that their backs have diamonds cut from them, leaving them hollow. He presses his hand through one, touching the small of Hawke's back, hearing his breath catch, feeling muscles jump.

Varric is having fun.

"Oh, you fought long and hard, but in the end the slavers overpowered you. Your only comfort is that Fenris will come for you, yes--" his fingers tease lower down Hawke's back. "Fenris will save you in time.

'But now they're doing something you don't like! You don't know what it is, but something's strange about it, some power that binds you where you sit. You can't help how it makes your head feel heavy and your cock so hard. You try to keep your eyes open, but it fails. Your head is lolling, you are drooling. Not asleep, but defenseless.

'The feather sensation of fingernails tracing patterns up your thighs is intoxicating." Hawke's body jerks, head rolling back as he gasps and groans, before he sags again. "Maddeningly, they only touch you near where you want, never exactly pleasuring you. Again and again they bring you to this perfect place, right to the edge of release: then they stop, and retreat, and leave you bound in the chair, begging for more, begging for mercy, begging to be given what you want.

'That's when they come to you, sending women and men alike. They kiss you; soft kisses like butterflies dancing along your whole body, anointing you with love and affection, with gentle caresses, and for a little while your certainty that Fenris will come falters because you are floating in a place beyond imagining, beyond even the Fade. They never press any harder to your skin, never give you any more but the lightest of contact, save the silk ropes, so soft, so soft."

"No," Hawke moans weakly, straining against the bindings of his own imagination futilely. "I want-- give me more," he hisses, desperate. "Fuck me. _Fuck me_. Just do it. Deep, and--"

"They deny you," Varric whispers, circling again, slowly, tracing his fingers along Hawke's straining thighs, his shaking arms. "They control you, every part of you, and it doesn't matter what you want: if they are happy, they say, you should be happy."

Making another sound, closely related but this one of true distress, Hawke's expression becomes one of worry as he squeezes his hands on the table's edge, whispering incoherent pleas under his breath. "Fenrisss," he whispers, and Varric is near enough to hear it. "Please, come and take me. Please, please, please--"

Varric reaches out, grabbing Hawke's erect prick with one forceful hand, and jerks him off so suddenly that Hawke screams in surprise, bucking his hips up into the welcome contact, begging for more, whimpering under the sheer force of Varric's gestures. It takes less than five minutes, and when he spills his release, he sinks down in the chair, blinking dazedly.

With a chuckle, Varric offers Hawke a small dry rag, of which he makes quick use. With the spell broken, Hawke now has the prudence to look utterly mortified at Varric, blushing and averting his eyes. "Maker, I didn't--"

"Yeah, you did."

"I'm so sorry, Varric." But he waves dismissively, and helps Hawke back into the front room with that inviting bed sheet and lonely, untended fireplace. While Hawke snuggles deep into the blanket and his favorite chair, Varric puts some fresh logs on the pile, spreads tinder, and at last glances over at Hawke to start the fire. He does so, still trying to hide as if Varric hasn't already seen everything, red enough to rival Aveline's worst sunburns.

Satisfied, Varric puts a hand to his hip, grinning cockily at Hawke. "Get some rest, Hawke. I'll clean up in the meantime, and then we'll see how well you fare under scenario number _two._ "

Hawke goggles, and Varric smirks gleefully. “Number two?”

“We’ll be on scenario five by the time Daisy arrives, I’m fairly certain,” Varric promises airily, setting about his work cleaning up around the estate. “If you can take it.”

If the way Hawke sits up straight in his chair is any indication, Varric rather suspects that Hawke is determined to not only take it, but enjoy it. He’s glad.

Scenario five is his absolute favorite. Now he has something to look forward to when he’s finished cleaning for the morning.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Virginia, there IS a punch out fight.

"I still don't know why he came here to sleep," Merrill confesses, with a soft, understanding smile. Her tiny house, already crowded as it was by the presence of both herself and Fenris (though he lies unconscious upon her table yet, and is probably beginning to take on some of the faint basil and cinnamon scent of her Varric-approved, indoors-only dry-things-garden), now also holds Aveline, looking dour after a long and fruitless day up at the Keep, and the person Aveline is glaring at. Said person is currently a heap of smug, self-satisfied armor and prince, almost unrecognizable as the same person they usually associate with the name Sebastian Vael. He had made himself very comfortable on the floor in the tiny corner created by Merrill's bookcase and one of the walls before Aveline arrived by some hours and seems to be endeavoring to sleep as langorously and lasciviously as possible. All this means that the house is crowded, Merrill is blushing, and Aveline is displeased.

She has spent much of her day coordinating patrols, sending out her guards both to scout the city for further blood mage activity, keep an eye out near Hawke’s estate, and run correspondence with Anders in Darktown and Carver, who is trying for once in his life to be subtle about sticking his nose into secret affairs. Anders found, in conjunction with some of Varric’s earlier information, several potential corridors and shafts down which their elusive blood mage enemies may be hiding, as well as information corroborating Merrill’s original analysis of the ‘kal’enkai’. (Not that she’s glad to hear their plan of sexing it out of Hawke has any basis in fact, except that she supposes it means they’re doing the right thing. Poor lad.) Carver has sneaked peeks at all of the Knight-Captain’s latest reports concerning blood mage activity, but found no mention of Hanora. Aveline’s patrols had come back at the end of the day-shift empty-handed, glad the city was safe, and about as informative as the rest of it.

In short, she is not in the mood for any more of this nonsense. Anders has been unable to find an alternative cure, Carver has yet to respond about whether the Knight-Captain might be put upon to help them round up this particular band of blood mages, and Aveline has no means of protecting any of her friends from what has already happened. Even if she hadn’t been nursing her frustration like a fine glass of brandy, Carver is troublesome to deal with even on a good day and Anders has succeeded in passing his persistent headache to her with his agitated attitude and cramped, balefully illegible handwriting.

Not, of course, that she hadn’t had a headache and problems she needed to air already. Glowering at Fenris, she crosses her arms over her chest with a clank of shifting armor plates and sighs. Perhaps they’re lucky that the Qunari haven’t caused any new trouble since this whole damnable thing started. She’d hate to field a request from the Viscount. ‘Oh, help us with the Arishok, he has asked Hawke to come to tea’ might not be well met with ‘he can’t, he might be a thrall.’

She turns her thoughts back to Sebastian and sighs again, more gustily, giving that one up as a lost cause. "So long as he's not causing you any trouble, I suppose he’s welcome to sleep where ever he likes."

Laughing, Merrill smoothes down her skirt, dusting it distractedly clean of some imaginary filth. Not that her clothes aren't worn, but they always seem about as clean as one can manage to keep anything, living in the alienage. "Oh, certainly not. He did try to kiss my hand when he first arrived, but lightning didn't seem to deter him and I didn’t _really_ mind."

Aveline feels an eyebrow rise. "Is that so?"

Merrill, accordingly, shakes her head. "Yes. He said, 'What a charmingly fierce lady are you, Merrill!'" It’s alarming, Aveline thinks, to hear Merrill so easily altering her light Dalish accent to the heavy, thick accent of Starkhaven-- one Sebastian usually goes to great trouble to suppress. Merrill leans in close, disturbing Aveline’s musings about dialects and political friction betwixt Starkhaven and Kirkwall with a knowing nod. "I think he'd been drinking a bit!"

"That's-- possible." She can't bring herself to feel guilty for allowing Varric to 'convince' their stubborn friend to aid in Hawke's cure, but she does find herself wondering if they've unleashed some part of Sebastian he'd have preferred to keep in check as a result. Actions in Kirkwall always seem to have dire and relatively unexpected consequences. He might look content and peaceful now, but suppose if when he wakes he’s a changed man? A pushier, more sex-crazy man? She shudders to think of it. "I'll keep an eye on them both while you're-- indisposed, then, Merrill. Thank you for letting me know."

"Oh! You're welcome. Thank you for keeping watch! Good evening!" Contrary to all logic, Merrill curtsies and, before Aveline can recover from her bemused surprise, exits through the front door. Aveline frowns, less than thrilled for all her talk to be left alone with two unconscious and troublesome men. There’s little to do in Merrill’s little house, so Aveline starts by setting down her shield against the wall and unbuckling her armor, stripping down to her sweaty-but-functional leathers with a relieved sigh. It isn’t as though she has more room but she feels much freer in just leathers and her shoulders are grateful for the rest. After carrying about her irritation with Fenris for the last two days-- trying, Maker help her, not to let it fester and boil too much, but generally failing-- she has developed a bit of a sore neck.

She takes the chair beside the table where Fenris lies and begins rubbing at her neck, agitated, watching him for signs of motion.

According to both Merrill and Anders, Fenris has been sleeping, nothing more, as his body recovers from the blood magic that nearly led their enemies to Hawke. It seems to Aveline she was better off not knowing the specifics, but now that she does she can’t help running over it in her mind. Evidently, blood magic of certain types can control the mind, while others move the body, leaving the mind free to try to fight, and Fenris had been hit with the latter. Most people in such a situation would probably have given in to stop the pain, watching in helpless horror as they followed the magic's command but Fenris, stubborn and probably worried about Hawke's safety, had not stopped fighting until he was unconscious. Anders had gone on to explain in greater detail than Aveline wanted to know how extreme cases of attempted resistance to such magic could lead to the body ripping apart from the inside out. He had finished, to her relief, by adding wryly that Fenris had been close to succeeding at exactly that. His wounds are equivalent to those he sustained weathering the attentions of an angry dragon in the Bone Pit, which had, at the time, left him unable to walk (even with healing) for a week.

Since they do have some rather exorbitant benchmarks for recovery time by which to gauge, Anders suspects with usual healer-precision that Fenris will wake up 'sooner than that'. Watching him sleep, Aveline can only hope Anders will be right. The longer she’s forced to wait, the more she wants to bash the bastard's face in and be done with it. Somehow, that doesn’t seem like her best instinct. At the very least Hawke would probably be inconsolable.

Time passes slowly as she sits there, uninterested in Merrill's numerous books and quite frankly left with nothing productive to pass the time. Her sword is already sharp and polished, her shield a mirror-bright wall between her and enemies. She’s had time to clean her armor.

Shy of taking a bath, which she’s not going to do in Merrill’s house and she’s _especially_ not going to do with Sebastian around, there’s nothing productive to do, anyway. At first she occupies herself with fantasies about how thoroughly she’ll tell Fenris to stay away from Hawke if he knows what’s good for him, eloquent left jabs and decisive stomps on his in-step to keep him from retorting with any logic that might steal her thunder. Then she starts thinking too much about how very sad that would make Hawke and, disgruntled by the obvious flaws of her plan, traces the cracks of a loose chunk in Merrill’s table. She draws her dagger and breaks that loose bit of wood off with a thunk! of the handle against it, then weighs it in her hands. It might make a decent little horse, though it’s too small for any detailed work and slightly spongy to be whittling. Once she’s decided, she sets to work, frowning at the thing in her hands as it slowly takes shape.

It’s as she’s finishing, chiseling out little eyes for the thing with the point of her dagger, that Fenris finally stirs. A strange experience. He doesn’t wake like anyone she's ever known. One moment, he’s dead asleep, breathing as deeply and evenly as Wesley had, on those nights she'd laid awake, wondering how much time they had left. The next instant, he’s scrambling off the table, eyes wide and unseeing, growling a little as he knocks over the books and half-empty mug that had been left on the table’s edge beside him as he slides off and, ungracefully, finds his feet.

By the time he’s standing again, he seems to recognize where he is. Eyes narrowing, he growls, glancing about and subsiding when he sees that Aveline is sitting so very nearby. He looks again around the small interior of the house, clearly wondering where Merrill is, but turns a puzzled expression Aveline's way when he catches sight of Sebastian sprawled comfortably on the floor.

That part at least she wouldn’t blame anyone for. It’s an odd sight, stranger than some other very bizarre things she’s seen in her time.

"What--" he asks, voice hoarse with disuse, and coughs lightly, trying to rouse himself the rest of the way, blinking rapidly. "What happened? Why am I in the blood mage's home?"

Aveline _has_ had the benefit of more than a day to think of the most effective and efficient means of summarizing what had happened in the interim, so she doesn't miss a beat.

"You're welcome on Merrill's behalf for sheltering and protecting you from blood mages, no they didn't get inside the manor, yes, Anders _did_ heal you, and Sebastian filled in with Hawke last night while you were out." She lets that sink in, then slowly stands, motioning for him to take the chair she's vacated. "Varric, Carver and I have been looking into this Hanora person who originally sent Hawke that letter, and it seems she's the head of some group in Darktown who run a black market trade in human flesh, living or otherwise."

Just in time, she steps clear of the chair. Fenris all but falls into it, his legs still a bit weak from being unconscious so long. He leans forward over his knees, swallowing as his stomach tenses and his shoulders hunch; but with his head in his hands, his nausea seems to subside. "And Hawke?" he asks, sounding uncertain, perhaps having picked up on her irritation with him.

"Still under the thing's spell. Merrill will be able to say more about whether our efforts have done him any good tomorrow morning." Rolling one shoulder, Aveline works to ease up, to let her voice sound less clipped and accusatory. Clenching her hands until her knuckles pop, she tries to relax. "If all goes well, Anders may not even need to lay with him."

Seeing the way Fenris instantly bristles at the thought of _that_ mage sleeping with _his_ mage, she decides mentioning it further is a poor idea. When Fenris speaks, he straightens, scowling at the door of Merrill's hut. Beneath his anger, she thinks she sees a hint of something else-- fear? and tries her best to ignore it. That's not something she's here to pry about.

The other thing, though.

"Thank you for watching me while I recovered." Fenris stands from the chair and keeps his feet with much less visible effort this time. This time his inquisitive search of the room is precursory to seeking his weapon and gauntlets. "I am sorry to have kept you from your investigation into this matter."

"Your things are in the back," she interjects, pointing around the corner and down Merrill's small hall. "Also, you kept me from nothing. Don't apologize for that." Oh, Aveline is _trying_ to keep the edge out of her voice, but even this modicum of peace is difficult for her to maintain. She is no fan of mollycoddling and side-stepping and implying, waiting for someone to catch the hint and act accordingly.

Fenris returns with his sword slung over his shoulder, gauntlets both clutched in his right hand, and looks at her curiously. "Have I done something to offend you, Aveline? You are-- more hostile than is usual." A thought occurs to him and his expression darkens into a scowl. "Did I harm you while under the influence of that blood magic?" he spits, scornful of himself, apologetic.

It won't get more fair or less dangerous than this, so Aveline opens with a fist in the front of Fenris's jerkin, dragging him up to her face, glaring down into wide, green eyes. "No.” He relaxes, even though she is holding him by his shirt, and looks puzzled. “We need to have a talk about Hawke. You’re destroying him."

Shame, embarrassment, fear again-- why fear?-- and then irritation chase each other over his face, the latter settling. He plucks himself from her grasp, stepping back and tossing his gauntlets into a corner, where they clank noisily. "What Hawke and I do or do not do behind closed doors is none of your business. If that is what you wish to discuss, I decline."

Aveline's eyes narrow, and before either of them actually believes she's going to do it, she punches Fenris sharply in the jaw, savoring the way his head snaps to the side and her knuckles ache dully. She drops low, keeping her stance guarded and deflects his answering blow, trapping his wrist in practiced fingers and throwing him over her shoulder. He lands on his back on the floor, stunned, winded, with enough force to rattle the books on the shelf, though Sebastian shows no signs of waking. "Wrong," Aveline tells Fenris simply, lips pressed into a thin, angry line. "If it were anyone else I might leave you to break hearts however you like. But this is _Hawke_ you're hurting and I'll not stand for it."

Stricken, Fenris throws himself to his feet, not backing away quickly enough to escape her grasp as she throws her arms around him from behind, squeezing tight until his struggles ease and he gasps for air. "--I had to--leave!" he pants, growling when Aveline momentarily falters. He jams an elbow back into her gut. She staggers back until she hits the wall, hissing, one arm covering the sore spot where it's hard for _her_ to breathe, now, too, and grimaces at him. "I did not--"

"Coward," Aveline snarls, and with her other hand feints, then snaps his head back with an uppercut. "What possible reason--"

"I could not--!!" He blocks her next blow, ducking his head, beginning to look and sound desperate.

“—could justify leaving him like _that_?” They've not really hurt each other yet but another minute or two and this fight will be in earnest. Fenris can tell that she has been pulling her punches and she knows he’s pulling his, as she has a heart and it’s still happily beating in her chest. At this moment, however, Aveline is remembering that innocent lack of understanding in Hawke's eye, the obvious pain he'd felt to find Fenris gone when he woke.

She is beyond caring whether Hawke will be mortified that she beat up the boy that broke his heart or not. When all’s said and done she won’t hurt him much, just rough him up, break his nose, make him promise to apologize. That’s all. Maybe give him a loose tooth.

She starts to swing.

" _Aveline!!_ " A hand she was not expecting catches her punch, then retracts just as suddenly, its owner wincing loudly as he shakes out his hand. "Ach. Both of you! What in the Maker's name is this all about?"

They both lower their fists, but Aveline teeters between annoyed and relieved at being interrupted. After a moment or two, she settles on the latter with a weary sigh. She’d have regretted it, anyway. "Good evening, Sebastian." He has the gall to look positively chastising at first her, then Fenris, but Aveline simply crosses her arms over her chest and glares back, while Fenris looks thoroughly hang-dog, clearly wondering what he could possibly have done to incur her wrath.

Honestly, that softens her a bit. Poor sod. She can only imagine how muddled up everything must be for him if he really _doesn't_ know.

"Did you think I'd sleep through that?" Sebastian asks wryly, a shrewd expression in his eyes as he glances from Aveline to Fenris. She realizes, with a slight start, that he is signaling her to go easy on Fenris-- which implies that he actually has some idea what she's upset about. Interesting. She’d not pegged Sebastian for having any perception at all.

It makes sense that he’d know her qualms with Fenris, however, if she lets herself admit it. After all, Sebastian’s actually been with Hawke, now. Strange as it is to imagine. "No," she says quietly. "That's for the best, really. I'm sorry, Fenris," and now she turns to him, sees him looking at her with more of that _fear_ , and feels a trifle guilty. "It's just-- have you any idea how much you're hurting him? I'm not even talking about tearing him, really, though Maker knows you oughtn’t be doing that, either. When he woke up and you weren't there, if you’d seen his face--"

Though fear spikes in Fenris's eyes at the word _tearing_ , Sebastian hisses, reacting first. "I thought so." At her raised eyebrow, he adds, "Isabela asked that I be...gentle, and I assumed there'd be a reason."

"I-- hurt him?" Fenris repeats slowly, looking first to Aveline, then to Sebastian as though they'd just told him Hawke was dead. Which is to say there are, indeed, puppy eyes, and they are monumentally depressing.

Ouch. All right, now Aveline regrets actually using her fists. Blast it all, she'd _known_ enacting her fantasies of righteous violence would only lead to guilt. She’s reluctantly glad Sebastian intervened "Yes, Fenris. I know you have your reasons," she doesn't, but assumes he must have some, and wants to give him the benefit of the doubt this time, "But leaving him there when he needs you hurts him. He loves you. You love _him_ , even an oaf like me can see that. Why do you do this to him?"

She has never seen Fenris look trapped and doesn't like it. Worse, her sisterly impulse to go hurt the person responsible for his unhappiness is rather aimless. Who can she blame? Herself? All of Tevinter? The elusive Danarius? He shifts away from both of them, torn between telling them the truth and trying to defensively evade their attention.

"I--" With a frown, Fenris settles, perhaps predictably, on the latter. "It is not something I wish to discuss with anyone."

Before Aveline can speak up, Sebastian waves a hand dismissively. "Fine. But you still have to own up to the rest." At their equally baffled expressions, he sighs, shaking his head. "You've never been with a man before Hawke, have you?"

"No."

Nodding, Sebastian holds up his right index finger. "Right. Hawke was a virgin before he was with you," he uncurls his middle finger. "You've only slept with each other once before this began," now his ring finger, "And I'm guessing, since he took so well to it--" Aveline can't quite suppress her chuckle at Fenris's brief, territorial glower. "--that you're the one who takes him, not the other way around, yes?"

Flushed red with embarrassment and still mildly annoyed to have been reminded of Sebastian's attentions with Hawke the night before, Fenris nods quietly. "Yes."

"You didn't use lubrication, did you."

"What?"

"Oh, Maker." Sebastian winces. "Is it meddlesome to want to fix you? I promise I'll only meddle a trifle."

Fenris does his best to look knowledgeable and unfazed, scoffing. "You are unceasingly meddlesome about Andrastian affairs."

Putting a steadying hand on Fenris's shoulder, Aveline squeezes lightly when he seems half inclined to back away from her, at first. She stares down at him until he meets her eyes. "Fenris, this isn't about Andraste or anything. This is about treating the man you love with a little respect. You _have_ to be careful if you do anything--" She muscles through the words, blushing brightly, and is glad that Fenris doesn't laugh. "--down there. It's too tight, and it doesn't, well. It's dry and it’s only skin. Skin tears if you’re rough with it, you know that."

His brow furrows, his anger slowly fading into realization, then contrition. "I had not," he swallows, looking mildly ill. "I could have..."

"If you're too rough, a whole lot of things could go wrong," Sebastian agrees earnestly. "Believe me, I know. And uncomfortable as this whole situation is for all of us, I think it might be a good time to at least talk about how to do it properly. For you _and_ for Hawke."

"We will," Fenris says roughly, and though he sounds as anguished as Hawke looked to Aveline when he'd awakened that morning, he is also certain, stubborn. "We will not be 'doing this' again, once Hawke is safe. I--"

"--will benefit from the knowledge regardless and are not weaseling out of it," Sebastian finishes for him with a steely look that silences his protests. Where he got it from Aveline isn’t certain, but she’s duly impressed. Usually Fenris only seems inclined to discuss such personal things with Hawke, and only after a few bottles of wine to grease the gears. Sebastian continues blithely, "Since I happen to be on hand, I'll impart the knowledge. I doubt Aveline has dealt with it first hand."

"I've read Varric's friend fiction," she admits, still blushing, knowing that, if anything, such knowledge _dis_ credits anyone thinking to explain the ins and outs of any sexual acts, ever.

Sebastian wrinkles his nose and motions for her to exit Merrill's home. "I don't have to read those to know Varric's a talent at gross exaggeration. You get some air, and walk that anger off. I'll tell him."

"I’ll not be dismissed," Aveline growls, some of the anger resurfacing. There's still the matter of getting Fenris not to run out on Hawke again, though he seems to think 'staying away forever' is a better option. To her surprise, Sebastian points at the door, glaring until she huffs and accedes. “Fine. But we _are_ talking about this later,” she promises, giving Fenris a severe look. He turns his eyes away, shifting uncomfortably, until she leaves.

Outside, she leans against the wall beside the door, watching the great big tree that grows up in the Alienage's central square, counting as high as it takes for her temper to settle. Eventually, her heart calms and she has the grace to be embarrassed at how childish she must've looked.

She hopes, glancing up at the deepening blue of the night sky, that Merrill is faring better.

***

There are errands to run, before Merrill makes her way to the Hawke estate in Hightown. She's grateful for them; they give her time to think, time to work with her own feelings and try to battle off the impending sense of inadequacy that comes of wanting something she knows that she can never really have. Her feet take her down the steps of Lowtown to the docks and out along the salt-and-sand-encrusted planks of a pier to the little ferry back and forth from the Gallows, even as she frets that her personal inexperience will compromise the evening.

Thoughts of Hawke's kind smile and friendly voice, Hawke's silly laugh and terrible jokes, are all wheeling through her mind. Try as she might, Merrill has never been able to stop herself from loving Hawke. Now it's just actually a problem, because how will they ever look at each other after this? Even if everyone has been involved, she can't help feeling as though she is personally responsible for the consequences of the poisons eating through his body. She was the one, after all, who suggested this 'cure'.

"You look like someone tossed you into a rainbarrel, kitten."

Startled, Merrill jumps back a pace or two from where Isabela has, apparently, been casually lounging. As has ever been the case, there's a sense of utter calm lingering near her, giving Isabela the impression of someone who could stand firm in the middle of a hurricane and just laugh. Not for the first time, Merrill wonders idly why it is Varric writes stories about Hawke and not Isabela. Not that she doesn't love Hawke, too, but Isabela's life is so exciting and full of adventure, and there's already so much to tell. With Hawke, Varric has to make things up sometimes.

Isabela waves, grinning, as Merril pulls a lock of hair from her eyes.

"Sorry, Isabela. I didn't see you there." She hesitates, then adds in a rush, "Of course, you already know I didn't because I overreacted, but I didn't mean it to seem like I wasn't happy to see you. I was just thinking." For once, she manages to stop herself from going on so far that she can't remember where she started. With a little swell of pride at that, she glances towards the ferry.

"No need to apologize. What were you thinking about?" The smile on Isabela's lips turns wicked. "Are you going to tell Carver about the sticky details of his brother's situation?"

"Didn't you tell him yesterday?" Merrill answers, surprised.

Instead of answering, Isabela bursts into uproarious laughter, slinging an arm about Merrill's shoulders as they both step onto the deck of the ferry and Isabela tosses the man in charge a couple of coins for fare. It's a fine day, chill with wind but clear as far as the eye can see, up in the blue mouth of the sky. Merrill inhales deeply, savoring the scent of the sea; beside her, she can hear Isabela doing the same.

The ride is short, and leaves her time to start sinking down into her thoughts again, but she chases them off by continuing their conversation. "Should I _not_ tell Carver? Do you think he'd react badly?" she frowns, wondering what they gain from not telling Carver. "Why would he?"

"Because, kitten, even were he not particularly nasty to poor Hawke on his good days, neither Carver nor his mum would want to know about the details of Hawke's sex life if they could help it. Besides," Isabela's bemused smirk softens into a fond smile that Merrill doubts she was supposed to see. "The poor boy's embarrassed enough letting us all service him as it is, don't you think?"

"I guess so," and she does, since she's really not sure of Hawke's feelings on the matter and has been pointedly keeping herself away from finding out until her 'turn'. "Oh, and I wasn't actually going to look for Carver at all," she adds as an afterthought, watching a small flock of seagulls skim the water just a few meters off the bow of their ship as it glides slowly towards the looming Gallows. "Anders came by last night to ask if I could run and replenish his supply of healing potions and salves, and then Sebastian said Hawke would need more as well, after the night they'd had."

There are certain wild cats Merrill has seen in her life that look about like Isabela does at _that_ statement. Only they're a little less hungry, in Merrill's limited experience. " _Did_ he now?"

Merrill nods.

"Did Sebastian say anything else?" Isabela wheedles, crooking a finger and tapping her chin thoughtfully. Merrill can already see Ideas forming behind Isabela's eyes, in the dimple of her smile, and suspects nothing she could contribute will be as enjoyable as whatever fantasies Isabela is weaving. With a shrug, she shakes her head. It's the truth: quite contrary to anything Merrill would have expected, Sebastian had come to her home in the alienage early in the morning, unusually friendly and severely relaxed. He'd mentioned the need for potions, enfolded Merrill in a wholly chaste hug with a charming laugh, and asked if he might stay at her house for a little while. At her hesitation, he had cajoled her with promises of cleaning up and organizing her things, and she had hastily acceded, telling him he need do no such thing, but was welcome to stay if (for whatever bizarre, unfathomable reason) he wanted to.

Then, he had promptly snuggled up against her bookcase and gone to sleep.

She still isn't really certain why, and figures it's a mystery for another time. They reach the Gallows before a quarter of an hour has passed and she steps off of the boat with Anders's coin and her own carefully concealed in the belt pouch on her hip. One hand cradling this, the other digging into her small satchel for the list Anders has given her, she begins to walk up the stairs, intending to go straight to the courtyard.

Isabela's hand catches her shoulder, and she pauses, glancing back. "Let me help you, Kitten. That way you don't have to make a double trip; I'll take Anders his supplies, and you can just head right on up to Hightown."

"Oh," she says, trying not to sound disappointed and nervous. She decides she will make a brief stop at the manor where Leandra Hawke and all of the servants of the estate are temporarily hiding, instead. Merrill needs every moment of self-preparation she can get before she's going to tackle this strange situation. "Thank you, Isabela, you're so kind."

They walk together through the Gallows's unwelcoming gates and she is glad to have a friend at her side. Even though she has no staff on her back and is nigh-invisible to the templars, their mistrustful glowers make her feel trapped and small. It's nice to have someone to hide behind, even if usually that someone is just as much an apostate as she, and brazen enough not to hide it.

That's the thing about Hawke. Around him, she almost feels like she's back among the clan, surrounded by people who understand that sometimes, magic can and should be used. Around him, she feels normal.

All is going well until Carver catches sight of them and storms across the courtyard to point an intimidating armored finger at Isabela's impressive chest. "You!"

Isabela agrees smugly, "Me!"

"What you did yesterday is--" Eyebrows arcing towards her hairline, Merrill finds herself wondering what Isabela did yesterday that could make Carver turn so red. Maybe he slipped and fell in all that armor? It would be so terribly embarrassing if he had.  
"You can't possibly be complaining," is all Isabela says, as she continues walking blithely towards Solivitus and Merrill finds herself scampering to follow. "I gave you a nice grope and everything."

Merrill gasps, though so does Carver. "Oh, my! Did you ravish him?"

"Hah!"

" _Shut up!_ "

"No, I did not." The appraising look in Isabela's eye abruptly drops away into a scowl, and she mimics Carver's earlier gesture, jabbing her absolutely unarmed, callused finger into the midst of his breastplate. He probably can't feel it through all that metal, Merrill thinks, and yet he stumbles back. "If I find out you've breathed a word of this to the Knight-Commander, you'll regret it, pup. I meant what I said, yesterday."

With a sigh and his hands raised in surrender, Carver falls into step beside them, lowering his voice. "I wouldn't do that, he's my _brother_. And I still say it's wrong to take advantage of him while he's...like that."

Curiosity burns in Merrill's throat, but she tries not to ask, instead dashing ahead and throwing both coin and list at Solivitus. "Messere! Can I buy all these things from you with this? I need it for Hawke." She blinks, thinks it over, and adds, "Oh, and Anders, I suppose, but mostly for Hawke."

Behind her, she can hear Isabela taunting Carver about how she wasn't taking advantage and it's complicated, the sounds of a little scuffle as Carver makes an ill-advised grab for Isabela's daggers, trying to disarm her before they become entangled in fisticuffs. She's too fast; he's too emotional; and it seems it could all be avoided with a simple explanation, but that isn't forthcoming. Solivitus, for his part, only smiles benignly at the conflict, turning his bright gaze on Merrill's list instead of the money.

He purses his lips. "Ah, yes. I remember you, don't I, girl? You travel with Hawke often." He smiles at the memory, chuckling. "I seem to recall you prompted him to make one of his less terrible jokes, as well, didn't you?"

Ever a bane on her conscience, the horrendous pun makes Merrill groan good-naturedly. "I did. Oh, creators, that's embarrassing, I didn't think you'd remember that."

"It's not often that I am blessed with company, my dear girl," Solivitus counters, winking at her as he turns back to his little shop and begins pulling out vials of potions, bandages, poultices, and a couple of sweet-smelling roots, as yet un-processed, wrapping it all in crinkling brown paper that he ties off with strings. "I remember most people who come my way."

Merrill glances over at the Tranquil whose shop is set up beside his, and can feel him doing the same. When she turns back to him, she can't help seeing the sorrow there, even when he smiles at her and hands her two packages-- one of Anders's wares, and one for Hawke. "Did you know them?" she asks, before she thinks it over. "Before, I mean."

What a handsome smile he has; and she's sorry she asked. "I took the liberty of separating your packages," he says, voice a little softer, eyes cast down at the two bundles. "Your list had a familiar hand, and I know your messenger well. The rest should serve Messere Hawke's purposes, I trust."

"Thank you." She bites her lip, guilty. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be, my dear. You, and any friend of Hawke's, is a friend of mine. And of course, you're always welcome to come back." Just like that, he is grinning again, and try though she might, she can't see signs of that lingering worry or sorrow in his eyes. Instead of lurking and gawking, Merrill takes the packages, trying to look gracious, and turns back to find Carver in a headlock crying 'You win! you win!' while Isabela laughs so hard she's almost in tears.

It takes some minutes to extricate the two from each other, some more for Isabela to explain that she wasn't actually taking advantage of Hawke's condition, regardless of what Carver may think, and when Merrill hears the boarding bell of the ferry ring a second time, she rolls her eyes, exasperated, and says to Carver sharply, "You're better off not knowing why she had to be there, and we're _busy_ , Carver. Please. Ask some other time when Hawke isn't still sick!"

Either cowed by Merrill's sharp tone, or by the obvious packages of curatives in her arms, or maybe (some niggling part of Merrill's mind says, even though she's long suspected Carver could never really feel this way), maybe it's just that it's Merrill, but he backs down. "All right," he sighs, but looks at her imploringly. "Tell me, though, won't you? When it's over?"

She doesn't think Hawke would be incapable of suffering his brother's teasing, but she does think Carver might be more bothered by the knowledge than he will be amused. Still, if it will get them out of here and her on her way, Merrill's willing to tell. "When it's over."

They say their goodbyes, Isabela takes the heavier package, and they dash out to catch the ferry, just in time not to have to wait for the next. Fighting the wind means it takes closer to a half-hour to make it back to the docks, and once they've stepped off, Isabela grins at Merrill.

"All right, kitten. I'll see you later?"

"Yes." Nodding seems a bit excessive, but now she's getting nervous about what she has to do, tonight, again. It makes her feel like a mouse skittering around through dark fields. She tries not to think about how hawks eat mice. That hardly sounds pleasant. "At the Hanged Man?"

This seems to be the right thing to say, because Isabela lightly punches Merrill's shoulder. "There's my girl! First round's on me." They part ways, and Isabela dashes off into the shadowed halls of Darktown.

Merrill turns, resolute, and begins to climb the stairs.

She has time to think, time she doesn't want or need. Will Hawke be all right when she gets there? Will he be angry with her for participating in this whole-- debacle? Will he be hurt that they're, as Carver said, taking advantage of them?

Oh, she said at the beginning of it all that she'd rather have him alive and hating her than dead, but she's not excited to think he might actually hate her. What if he never speaks to them again? What if he sends Fenris after them all to kill them?

As she decides that Fenris will probably try to do that anyway, because he _is_ rather like a grumpy child and children _hate_ sharing their things, she bumps into a familiar woman and nearly loses her balance. "Oh!"

"Mercy me!" the woman catches the brown-paper package of healing potions and salves before they can crash to the ground, deftly balancing it on her slender hands.

Leandra Hawke. Of course. "Madam Hawke!"

"Yes, yes," and she hands the package back to Merrill with a wry grin that reminds Merrill strongly of Hawke. "You're Merrill, are you not? The girl from Sundermount."

"Oh," she begins to worry about her dusty, ragged dress, even though most times she can't care less what a shemlen thinks of her. But then. This is Hawke's mother. And she certainly does like Hawke, even if he normally wouldn't have anything to do with her _that_ way. And also Hawke’s mother has always seemed like such a friendly woman, not unlike her son in her cheerful smiles and knowing winks and suchlike. "Yes. That’s me. Er—but I don’t know what I should call you, Madam Hawke."

Rolling her eyes, Leandra Hawke gestures for Merrill to follow her. "Leandra will do fine, my dear. How have you been? Are you on your way to see my son?"

If Isabela said not to tell Carver, Merrill guesses she's not to tell Hawke's mother about what’s happened to Hawke, either. It seems likely she'd be scandalized by their idea of a cure, at the least, and if Merrill’s story doesn’t match up with someone else’s that Leandra has already heard, she might get suspicious and well, the whole thing IS... kind of dirty. "Yes," she says hesitantly, trying to figure out how to not quite admit she's about to do dirty things with Leandra's son. It turns out she’s not quite as poor at lying as she feared. Or Leandra Hawke is generous. Or she trusts them. One of those things. "He's not better yet, but we're hoping to have him cured soon."

"That's comforting to hear," Leandra says warmly, some cloud of concern lifting from her gentle face. She’s so very pretty, Merrill thinks, for a lady who lives alone with her son and grief. Hopefully she does exciting things when Hawke is away. "Well, I shouldn't keep you then, dear. Sorry about bumping into you, I really should look where I'm going!"

Merrill has a lot she wants to say. First and foremost, that she'd planned to stall her participation in Hawke's cure by lingering with Leandra for an hour or so until she found her nerve and could they just talk a while, please? Instead, she laughs weakly. "No, I wasn't looking either. Distracted, you know."

"Ah," and there's a wise, wry sparkle to Leandra Hawke's eye, a roughness to her chuckle. "Yes, I do know, at that."

But as she's already taken her leave, she still goes back to her business, waving politely to Merrill as Merrill continues on. She walks the rest of the way to Hightown in a bit of a frustrated stupor, forced to face the fact that there is no deflection, no waiting it all out.

At the door to Hawke's estate, she tries to steady herself, knocking twice and waiting for an answer.

Soft, booted footsteps eventually approach and Varric answers with his usual gusto. "Ah, the lady has arrived.” He bows to her as he motions her in. “Come on in, Daisy. Hawke's taking a nap just now; I think Choirboy didn't let him sleep all night." Maybe it's just Merrill's imagination, but there's a note of urgency to Varric's voice that seems to suggest she shouldn't tarry.

In light of that, she follows his lead, kicking the door shut gently behind her, frowning but not stopping. "Well, I suppose that's all right, but it wouldn't really be particularly helpful with breaking the curse. He didn't have to do that."

Things look more or less as they normally do in the Hawke manor. The fire in the fireplace is cozy and warm, Hawke's desk and chair are comfortably set, and the hall looks strangely empty without Bodahn or Sandal or Leandra around. As they climb the stairs, Merrill wonders how Varric handled his shift and Hawke’s artificial pliancy, furtively thinking of asking for tips.

When they enter Hawke's bedroom, however, all thoughts of her responsibilities for the evening go right out of her head. She gasps, horrified, and nearly drops her package.

Hawke looks awful.

He's been kept clean and forced to eat, she can tell by the empty trays with crumbs of leftover bread and cheese, but he's pale beneath his usual tan. Lesions are forming on his skin, reddish and swollen, where he was first hit with the blood of the kal'enkai. "Oh, lethallin," she murmurs, biting her lower lip hard to keep from swearing at the creators and the dread wolf alike. "How long has he been like this, Varric?"

"An hour, maybe two?" He shrugs, taking her package from her and setting it out on the desk where the trays have been laid, unwrapping it and sorting out the contents. "I got him through scenario four just fine-- seems like it works to clear his head, more or less-- but he started feeling dizzy, so I had him come upstairs with me, just in case."

Crouching down beside Hawke's bed, Merrill reaches up to tentatively test for his pulse, wincing at his raspy, uneven breathing. His heart is beating too hard, too fast, and she can see the tremor of his eyes beneath their lids, as if he were in a cruel dream. "And the marks?"

"Started showing after he passed out in the bed. Seems like they're getting worse, but I didn't know what to use on 'em." Huffing, Varric joins her at Hawke's side with one of the bottles of healing salve. "If I hadn't been out of salve I'd've tried this right off the bat. Also, he said cold water seems to help ease it off a little, but we weren't sure if that was just his imagination or what."

"I could try," Merrill offers, moving out of the way so Varric can smooth some of the healing ointment onto inflamed, agitated skin. Even in sleep, Hawke turns ardently into the slightest touch, moaning and sighing in relief. It makes them both uneasy; Varric works quickly, emptying the little pot of salve and slathering Hawke's face, neck and hands with it.

But when she summons the ice crystals, cautious and slow, since ice has never been her primary focus, she can instantly see the difference in Hawke. When she smoothes her ice-tipped fingers along his brow, his breathing stutters and finally stabilizes.

"Interesting," Varric mutters, watching closely. Merrill only nods, lips pressed into a thin line as she concentrates on summoning a little more-- small, easily melted crystals, placing them on Hawke's chest, his hands, his thighs, his feet, trying to cool him everywhere without giving him a chill.

She moves around the bed, laying down another touch of ice as the first is melting, focusing heavily on the lesions, though she's careful not to wipe away all of the healing salve. For the span of several minutes, she is silent, concentrating so hard she doesn't notice the sweat beading on her forehead.

Hawke's eyes snap open, and he gasps for air; she freezes, in midst of touching her ice-covered fingers to his cheeks.

"Hawke?"

Blindly, he reaches up to grab her hands, pulling them back against his face with a whimper. He shuts his eyes, hissing softly at the touch but unwilling to let her go.

It's a little embarrassing, having his hands over hers, touching him like this, but she fights to keep her focus, keep her fingers cool against his over-warm skin. "Hawke, is the ice helping?"

He nods slowly, groaning.

"Andraste's tits, Hawke, you had me scared for a bit there," Varric murmurs, patting Hawke's shoulder awkwardly from the other side of the bed. "I told Daisy what you said about cold water; seems like you're right."

"I'm going to make more ice and wrap it in a cloth, all right, Hawke?" She tries to stroke his face gently, worried he'll not understand if she just pulls her hands away. In a way she's sorry to have reason to stop. It's nice, somehow. Touching him. "Even though it's helping, you shouldn't put ice directly on your skin for long. It'll burn."

Grumbling, he loosens his grip on her hands reluctantly, letting her pull back and collect a small towel (with Varric's assistance to locate it). Suiting actions to words, she creates a chunk of ice about the size of her two fists, and wraps it once in the cloth, handing it back to Hawke without a word. He presses it to his throat, sighing at the contact, and slowly seems to come back around to his usual self.

"Feel better?" Varric asks, trying to sound lighthearted.

"I am _not_ going to last the week," Hawke answers, his voice shadowed with pain and weariness, his smile self-deprecating. "Should've sent for Merrill or Anders sooner, really. Sorry to give you such a scare."

She pats his hand. "It's all right. You're safe, now, anyway."

"Blondie and Daisy were busy, anyhow. Speaking of; did old broody wake up, Daisy? I know he was still out this morning." She shakes her head, sorry to disappoint their inquisitive looks, and shrugs apologetically. "Ah, figures. Well, I have some contacts to check with, meantime. Hopefully I'll have some solid information about who's behind this bullshit by tomorrow morning."

Hawke grins crookedly. "I've unshakeable faith that you will, Varric."

Even though she's probably not supposed to, Merrill sees the raw, aching concern in Varric's frown as he pats Hawke's shoulder again and turns to leave. "Well, you should. When have I ever let you down, after all?" He waves without turning back, and Merrill wonders if he'll be all right, if he needs a hug. Hugs usually make her feel better. "I can find my own way out. You two play careful."

Something about his tone suggests he doubts they could possibly hurt each other, but that's just silly. After all, Merrill does practice blood magic, and Hawke's in danger of becoming a thrall. Shouldn't he be more worried? Or maybe that's not what he meant. Hm.

"Well." Merrill helps Hawke sit up, biting her lip a bit when this causes the sheets to fall away and showcase his broad, very trim chest. His nipples are standing hard, and the slight bulge in the sheets at his waist suggests it's not because of the cold. She has an insatiable urge to reach out and touch, but perhaps there’s an etiquette to all this that she ought to observe. She makes a considerable effort to get her eyes off of his chest and back up to his face. "How- how are you holding up? Considering it all."

He presses her impromptu ice-pack to his forehead and sighs, looking overwhelmed, more than anything. Well, aside from attractive. Merrill has always felt like Hawke was exceptionally—exceptional. "I think I may just die of embarrassment. If not this poison. Or some strange blood magic merchant's ill will. Do you think they'll sell me at an auction? Presuming they can somehow miraculously get to me when I'm surrounded by all of you and you're all still quite sane. Or maybe that’s the trick, I’ll go mad and turn myself over to them willingly."

"You're not crazy, Hawke, it's just the poison," she says gently, trying to comfort him with a hand on his shoulder. Either he’s just that slippery, or she subconsciously really wanted to keep touching, however, because quite without meaning to her hand slips along his collarbone, his chest, and cups his nipple, thumb brushing along it just so. Hawke hisses, going still, bolting upright as if she’d fired lightning through him, and licks his lips very carefully, raising a shaky hand to press hers closer to his skin.

She reads this as a silent signal. This is Hawke, telling her, _It’s okay, Merrill. I don’t mind._

So, she pushes against his chest lightly, and together they scoot him back until his spine is braced along the headboard of his bed. She presses her other hand to his other nipple, slowly flicking her thumbnails lightly over his nipples, watching them and daring glances at Hawke’s face as she does. His mouth is open as if to speak but no words come, just breathy gasps and little yips, his eyes focused on her hands.

They’re both blushing.

“Is it...good?” She asks, coughing a bit to try to coax her voice into something less soft and inaudible. As if by their own will, her hands press in tight, palms flat against his nipples. She clamps her fingers down, squeezing, and when she kneads his chest she can feel how her palms trap the small, hard flesh of his nipples up tight in something like a pinching sensation. It’s like sucking, she realizes, only she’s managing it all through clever manipulation of her hands. “Do you like it, Hawke? The few men I was with before were always fond of things like this. They said—“ she hesitates, sees the open look of need on his face and wants to kiss it away.

Leaning in, Merrill does. And Hawke’s mouth is so eager, so sweet, so gentle and filled with that same strained urgent whimpering sound, so she squeezes again with both hands, drinking in his happy groan.

When they break apart, she takes his gaze with hers, smiling hopefully. “They said they’d never thought about it. Oh, but I’m babbling. You see, I think about it often. What it would be like to have breasts like Isabela. And nipples are so very sensitive, you know? Always reacting to the slightest things, to cold and heat and even that sense of danger. You can feel so many sorts of pleasure without ever touching any other part of yourself.”

Hawke laughs, nervously and moans. “M-Merrill, y-- _nn_ nnn...” Tries to catch his breath, and rocks his hips into her hips, where she hadn’t even realized she was already straddling him. His erection is a warm reminder against her belly.

“Do you like this, Hawke?” When she leans in to kiss him again, sliding her hands down his sides with half a thought to embrace him, he dissolves into a fit of giggles. Stunned, she starts to smile herself, keeping her fingers where they are, just a few inches above his hips, wriggling them slightly. “What?” Though she tries, she cannot keep the teasing tone from her voice, and he only starts laughing harder.

“I- I don’t know, I’m just—“ He wriggles, but cannot shake her, and only succeeds in trapping his erection between them as he drops the ice pack, grabs her hands, and pulls them away from his ribs, dragging her closer. Considering their position, she leans just a trifle further forward, nuzzling his throat and risking a lick to see what his soft skin tastes like—

Only to elicit a fresh peal of laughter he all but squeals, turning his face away and asking incredulously, “What are you doing what are you _doing_!”

“I’m kissing you!” Mildly exasperated—this is _not_ how she planned to have things go at all—she pulls away, freeing her hands from his and shaking her head in disapproval. As soon as she’s leaned back, he crosses his chest with his arms, smiling sheepishly and still struggling to contain his laughter. He makes an awfully alluring image, back against the wall with the geometric, pleasing designs of his pillows beneath him, breathless and flushed and, just this once, all her own.

She can’t help chuckling with him. When he finally controls his tension enough to stop his giggling, he demands petulantly, “Why are you laughing?”

“I’m laughing because _you’re_ laughing!” And it’s true, so she shakes her head at his antics, pushing forward again, dragging his resisting hands away from where they conceal his lovely chest, leaning in, kissing him chastely upon the lips. “I’m not going to hurt you, Hawke.” It takes every ounce of will to keep from breaking into a snigger or broad smile, with him still nervously tittering, but she manages it. She wants those words to be a sincere and reassuring promise.

Just a little, Hawke’s shoulders relax. “I know.”

“If it helps, I could not talk at all.” The idea isn’t appealing to her but it’s Hawke she’s concerned about. Besides, she sincerely doubts they’ll get anywhere if she can’t get him to stop flailing about uncontrollably. Sometimes personal sacrifices are required. Merrill’s no stranger to that. Flailing arms and legs are simply not conducive to sexual foreplay in her book. Not that she has a book. But maybe she could write one, with Varric and Isabela to help her. “Does it make you feel too aware? That I’m not who you really want to be with?”

His brow furrows and an apologetic sadness colors his voice as he reaches up, grabbing her shoulders. “Merrill, I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Isn’t it true?” Shrewdly, she slips her hands back over his chest, keeping them very plainly over his nipples, flicking them with her thumbnails until he recovers from reflexively recoiling. Only then does he begin to concentrate on the sensation of being touched, being pampered. His breathing grows heavy and a little uneven, his eyes half-lid as he drifts, thinking, perhaps, of what she’d said before, of the delightful sensitivity that is present throughout his body, not just in those most obvious erogenous zones. Merrill keeps her voice light and low, a guiding melody for his thoughts. “Fenris is the person you love, not I. We are both elves, but I am a blood mage and a woman; Anders is a man, but he is still a mage. Do you like Fenris because he doesn’t like mages, I wonder? It seems awfully contradictory. Perhaps a little unhealthy.” Unwise, she wants to add, but this may not be the kindest conversation to hold when Hawke is so very, very vulnerable. What she’d meant as a meandering, babbling brook of thought has come to a rather pointed question. She wonders if she ought to tell him it’s all right not to answer.

But he does, calm, even if his voice is still slightly strained. “No, that’s not why I—“ Catching himself, Hawke winces away from the words, settling instead on something less direct, something that doesn’t make him feel as though he is dropping his guard. “That’s not the reason I feel this way.”

Despite the fact that they all know, despite what they are doing, he shies away from admitting his feelings, seeming embarrassed by them. To Merrill, it seems a pity. She cannot have what she wants. Anders, though he refuses to get along with her and maybe doesn’t need her sympathy, can never have what he wants; shouldn’t Hawke at least let himself be happy, while he has what he yearns for? Proud of it? Content with it? They are each given so very little satisfaction in life. “You _love_ him, Hawke,” she tells him, almost sternly. Determined to get his attention, she pinches his nipples, making him catch his breath, eyes snapping into focus from whatever far-off thoughts were occupying his thoughts, staring at her. He looks surprised. “You were not raised in the Circle. Don’t be afraid to bare your heart.”

As she slowly twists his nipples, Hawke moans something incoherent that sounds suspiciously like he is agreeing with her. Even something as simple as that suits her well enough. Merrill has nursed no selfish desires to possess him, though she has often ached to be the center of his thoughts, to be graced by his smile. She loves Hawke. That has to be enough. She would not have him be unhappy just to satisfy her own wish.

That settled, she eases up, rubbing her hands palm flat over his chest and down to his belly, leaning in until she catches his gaze once more. Stubbornly, she refuses to let herself get lost in it, to identify the lust she sees for magic at work and ignore it. Beyond that is still the uncertainty of a man who would rather not be in this awkwardly intimate situation, and she can sympathize. “I’m going to do most of the work. I don’t think you’re well enough to do it yourself and I’m worried you might get worse again when you warm up.” She pushes away the sheet still covering his penis, tries not to admire it too openly. Instead she shifts her weight and rises up until she’s kneeling, pulls her dress over her head and her leggings down to her knees. “I don’t have much experience, but I’ll need to—“

Before Merrill can explain that she’ll need to loosen herself up, play a bit to make sure she can, erm, _accommodate_ , being only an elf, Hawke is suckling one of her nipples, his hands coming up to grasp her firmly by her waist. All her planned, comforting words about the simple process she will need to employ in order to be ready for him are tossed to the wind on a gasp of surprise. Hawke’s teeth nip lightly at the areole, and he runs his tongue over her skin eagerly.

“Oh,” Merrill breathes, stroking a hand through his hair and pressing forward, biting her lip and squeezing her knees against his hips. She finds her whole body writhing as she tries to press her own legs together and savor that pleasant sensation. She likes that. “Thank you, that will help.”

What does it mean, she wonders, that she feels so light and tingly, that his hands on her waist make her skin feel as though it could dance? She holds his shoulders, bends her neck to kiss the top of his head and groans as he turns, accosting her left breast with at least as much vigor as the right, flicking his tongue against the tip as if in practiced mimicry of what she had done with her fingernails before. It makes her whole body seem too small to house her pleasure.

“Hawke,” is not enough of a prayer to chase away the flush stark on her pale face, and she is licking her lips, driving her hips forward against his belly, moaning in mounting excitement. This is nicer than dreaming of kisses under the starlight.

He bites down, and the sound of her own breath becomes an annoyed, demanding whine to her ears.

“Don’t tease,” she chides him, pulling back before he leaves a mark or a bruise that she doesn’t want, sliding down to kiss his sweaty forehead and stroke his hair. “That’s not a nice thing to do, you know, teasing your partner.” This close, he just smells like sex and faintly of sweat, and she knows his erection is trapped between their bellies, that it wouldn’t take much of a movement to get herself lined up with him and—

“ _Nn,_ ” Hawke whines in what is definitely a complaint, as she tries to suit thought to action and ends up sliding her labia along the length of him, not quite getting him in. “But—you’re—“

“Not on purpose,” she swears hastily, shifting back and reaching down with both hands. Precariously balanced on just her knees, she grips his cock with one hand, getting no complaint. With the other, she tries to spread herself and realizes they’ve jumped ahead again. “Oh,” Her fingers do not seem appealing, but she knows, she _knows_ it will hurt if she just leaps in as she is now. “I can’t—I can’t, Hawke, not without a little more.”

At first, he seems confused; then some recent conversation dawns on him, and through the haze of blood magic and lust, he smiles at her, curiosity piqued. “Can I--?” Without quite waiting, Hawke lays a hand on the inside of her thigh, his soft fingers tracing tingling lines along the skin up towards her, teasing one fingertip along the lips of her labia. Something about it makes him catch his breath in surprise, brows lifting as he slides his finger more insistently along her, dipping in on the back, making her groan. “You’re not dry here.”

In spite of herself, she laughs (groans, when he begins pushing one finger slowly in, encouraged by this discovery). “That’s generally more of a masculine problem, I’m told. Women get slick if they’re—well, _you_ know.”

“I think,” he admits with a small, rueful, almost normal-Hawke-teasing-her smile. “I’m jealous.”

“Well, I’m not the one everyone’s willing to sleep with,” she says blithely, missing his contemplative frown. “So you shouldn’t sell yourself short, Hawke.” Then his finger slides in all the way until she feels the dry skin of his other knuckles pressed against the full line of her, and he curls it, uncurls it, testing what she feels like and really, what business have either of them, _talking?_ Merrill squawks, and sighs, and grows impatient. Lightly squeezing his erection where she’s gripping it at the base, she forces herself to wait as he tests her, slipping in a second finger shyly. Skin—abraded skin, dry skin—rubs less pleasantly on her soft skin than would something actually designed to slip inside but it still feels good to have him there, warm and firm and curious.

It’s not enough, and all too soon, she is growling. He smiles, she squeezes tighter to wipe that expression and all thought clear from him: his mouth opens in the beginning of a comely plea, eyes shut. Hawke’s voice unfurls in an indulgent moan.

“Three fingers,” Merrill demands hungrily, forgetting to be embarrassed. “I know you can fit that in.” At his skeptical look, she rocks her hips and gives his cock one swift stroke, proving her point as they both twitch and shudder. When Hawke sees Merrill’s determined expression, he relents immediately. Hawke’s third finger slips inside of her with nary a fuss and barely any effort, stretching and spreading muscle she has not used for this purpose in years. Her nipples still stand hard, feeling cold and electric where they stand stiff over the expanse of her belly, and she watches his erection and, below it, his hand sliding in and out of her, tiny thrusts, probing and cautious. Have they all been so delicate with him? No wonder he thinks it’s appropriate to tease his partner!

As before, she moans her encouragement, the sound spiking high and loud when he bends his head to suckle her breasts again, in time with the motions of his hands. Would that they were truly lovers: then, she would just let him have his way with her, touching her and kissing her and telling her he loved her with every part of himself. Even the teasing she could endure, and she would do the same for him. But since that is not to be, she whispers to him when she thinks she can handle his size, at last: “All right. All right, I’m ready.”

“But—“ He hisses as she thumbs the tip of his erection, spreading pre-ejaculate over the glans. His face is as red as she imagines hers is. They’re both sweating, and she can feel it beading along the backs of her knees, see it dripping down his neck. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” She smiles, and with the hand she hasn’t been holding him with, reaches down to spread herself wide, pushing her hips forward and arranging his cock so she can push down onto it. When she’s confident she can catch him, she pushes down; misses, grinds along his length again and they both whisper ‘damn it’, laughing. “I’m sorry,” she giggles, helplessly. “I’m sorry, I’ve actually done this before and I really do know how to make it work.”

“I believe you,” he promises with a big, friendly grin, and isn’t _that_ nice?

Merrill repositions, and goes down slowly, watching Hawke’s smile transform into euphoria instead of her hands as he slides in, caught for a moment before she starts pushing further down. Hands free, she frosts her fingertips, lightly running them along his skin to keep him from heating up too much. It’s an interesting war playing across his face: ecstatic, simple lust as she groans, biting her lip and pushing down, taking him slowly, slowly in; that same strange confusion that has been clouding him since he was first poisoned; and, beneath it all, his determined but trusting self, leaving it to her to keep him safe.

For her part, it’s wonderful. She gasps when she realizes there’s still _more_ and she’s still pushing her hips down, and grabs him tight, hugging him closer as she settles his cock deep in her body.

“ _Elgar’nan!_ ” It’s not quite too much, but it stings a little when she pushes too fast and he unconsciously raises his hips to meet her that last little bit. He tries to move and she pushes him back against the headboard and the wall, pulling away to give him as stern a look as she can muster, feeling so very content with him buried inside her like this. “ _Mahvir, Hawke, enansael ma'maleva!_ ”

He blinks at her in confusion. “I—what?”

“Oh. Um. Give me a moment.” She presses her icy fingertips to his temples, and he sighs, relaxing into the touch, rolling his hips very slowly even as she tries to get used to the feel of him in there. More than anything, Merrill wants to say ‘ma’arlath’, but she knows he’d wonder what she meant, so holds her tongue, feeling a stirring of deep, incredible pleasure in the pit of her belly. “Hawke,” she breathes, feeling a little as though his lust is contagious. The more he moves within her, the more she feels filled to the brim. “You feel—“

“Please, can I move?” he asks, game to follow her commands but eyes bright with desire. She considers it, just for a moment, but she knows she’d regret it when her insides felt all bruised and sore later. Not that there isn’t something to be said for a good bruised and sore in certain cases, but taking in her first-ever shemlen is not, she feels, one such. Seeing her refusal clear enough on her face, he makes a little whining noise in the back of his throat.

Merrill touches one finger to his lips, and he shivers in delight at the cool touch. “I’ll move. Don’t worry.”

For a moment, it seems he’s going to argue. She lifts her hips, just a little, and pushes them back down, and that silences them both with a hiss of breath as she concentrates on balancing and bringing her hips back up again. Hawke just watches her face adoringly, some of his clarity fading as his hands lift to cup her breasts, trying to mirror the same ministrations she’d performed on his chest, earlier. It sends thrills up and down her spine and as sheets twist and slide beneath her feet, she holds onto him by his shoulders, gradually picking up the speed and letting herself dare to raise her hips almost as high as he stands when erect, slamming back down breathlessly.

They pant and groan and sweat together, and she rides him until he squeezes her breasts tighter, shouting Fenris’s name in one long moan. He is still hard even after, but she slows, delighting in the slick feeling of his seed pooling in his lap, running down the insides of her thighs. His hands, still on her breasts, play with them lightly, gently, as he searches her face, hopeful, concerned.

When he blushes and starts to ask, she cuts him off quickly, with a warm and entirely honest smile. “Hawke, I did this for _you._ Don’t worry.”

“I’m grateful.” This is the exact moment that he realizes he’s still in her, they’ve made a mess, and he’s touching her breasts, given the way he starts back, hands up in the air as if he’s been caught doing something naughty. Merrill can’t help it.

She starts laughing.

“And you’ve been laughing at me all night!” Hawke says with a fond sort of exasperation. “It’s not fair, you know.”

“I know.” She rises off of him, this time for good, surprised at how easily he slips out, given how difficult it was to fit him in. Oh, she ought to know better, but theory and practice seem always to contradict. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then, and we’ll do another check on those lesions.” With a quick look over him, she adds with a shake of her head, “I think you’d probably better sleep after, if you can. I’ll keep watch, keep you from overheating. You look dreadfully worn!”

“I _feel_ dreadfully worn,” he agrees, a trifle breathless, wearing an oddly pleased smile. “But also better than I have since that damn thing fell on me.” This is, of course, no guarantee that the spell is nearly broken—poisons run their course on their own time, after all—but Merrill tries to take it as a good sign.

“Come along, then,” she urges, rolling off of the bed and reaching out to take his hand. “I’ll help you to it.”

Hawke reaches out, still smiling, still hopeful, but Merrill sees the spasm that twinges through him when he stands, and the lesions, rapidly reappearing just as swollen as before. Wordlessly, she does what she can, stroking his chest, his face, his neck with icy fingers, leading him about in his dazed half-awareness and caring for him. There is little to talk about, with him in such a state. They don’t linger or dawdle, her panic mixing with his weariness to make them efficient as can be.

When he finally sleeps, she traces glyphs of warding in ice along his brow.


End file.
